

**The Trouble with Being Wicked**

Emma Locke

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**_He put her on a pedestal ..._**

When Celeste Gray arrives in the sleepy village of Brixcombe-on-the-Bay, she thinks she's one step closer to leaving her notorious past behind. She even suspects the deliciously handsome--if somewhat stuffy--viscount next door is developing a _tendre_ for her. That is, until the day Ashlin Lancester learns she's not the unassuming spinster she's pretending to be.

**_Now she has farther to fall_**

After a decade of proving he is nothing like his profligate father, Ash is horrified to have given his heart to a Cyprian. He launches a campaign to prove his attraction is nothing more than a sordid reaction he can't control. But he soon learns that unlike his father, he can't find comfort in the arms of just any woman. He needs Celeste. When he takes her as his mistress, he's still not satisfied, and the many late nights in her arms only make him want more...
**Download a FREE copy of** **A Game of Persuasion** **!**

A GAME OF PERSUASION

**_A night she 'll never forget..._**

Miss Lucy Lancester has loved her brother's best friend, Roman Alexander, for as long as she can remember. So devotedly, she's vowed never to marry anyone else. But her beloved libertine is hardly aware of her existence, and not the least deserving of her affection. Deciding her cause lost, she makes plans to open a girls' school in Bath. There's just one thing she needs to do before she confirms her spinsterhood forever: spend one blissful night in Roman's arms. But her handsome rogue isn't ready to have the tables turned. It will take more than a coquettish smile to turn his head. She must play a game...of persuasion.
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**The Trouble with Being Wicked**

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_Scandalous Spinsters_

_Book 1_

by

Emma Locke
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_For Erica, Darcy and Janice._

_Without you, there would be no story._

**Chapter 1**

_March, 1814_

_Brixcombe-on-the-Bay, Devon_

CELESTE GRAY COULD think of three reasons the dilapidated cottage reminded her of a man: It didn't meet her expectations. She couldn't anticipate spending the rest of her life with it. And it had cost her far more than it was worth.

A wry smile tugged her lips. And, as with a man, despite the many ways it had disappointed her, she still felt giddy to see it.

"Where shall I put your baggage, miss?" Tom, a wavy-haired footman she'd hired on in Exeter, cast a worried glance at the moldering roof of her new home. As they'd pulled into the drive, she'd seen an alarming crack in the northern wall, too.

He indicated her dusty carriage laden with hatboxes and trunks. "That is to say, I wonder if you mean to wait for the rest of the staff to arrive. They'll have this place to rights in a trice."

"Likely not!" Elizabeth Spencer crowded into the doorway beside Celeste. As usual, she was heedless of her pregnant belly, which bumped into Celeste's elbow hard enough to jostle her out onto the step.

"The house needs to be opened properly," Elizabeth continued. "Aired and washed, or perhaps burnt down. For goodness sakes, there are _sparrows_ in the rafters."

Celeste's lips twitched. While Elizabeth had been raised on an estate in Shropshire, Celeste had lived her entire life in London. A few nesting birds sounded like a diverting facet of country life, not cause for hysterics.

And it _would_ be fitting to make a jest about birds of paradise vying for a nest. But Elizabeth had little tolerance for silliness these days, and a glance at their new footman proved he was listening. Tom might take note of the innuendo, along with a great many other hints. Celeste needed to mind her tongue from now on, if all were to go as planned.

She settled for drawling, "I'm sure they're just as outraged by your presence as you are by theirs, Mrs. Inglewood."

Elizabeth moved further into the doorway until she almost joined Celeste on the step. She'd always been the more striking of them, but her brown curls shone now, and the daring cut of her carriage dress enhanced the effects of pregnancy on her already-fine bosom.

She offered their footman a brilliant smile. "I'm sure they're _not_. Nevertheless, Tom will have the rafters clear soon enough. He looks to be a strong lad with a steady pair of hands. You're just _waiting_ for an opportunity to please us, aren't you, Tom?"

"Elizabeth!" Celeste's humor disappeared. Even heavy with child, Elizabeth could stop a man at twenty paces. Yet she would never sink to dally with a man in her employ, which made any flirtation with their besotted footman cruel. Perhaps more important than Tom's feelings, however, her banter was unseemly. They must care about that now.

Elizabeth trailed a slim hand through the air like a French courtesan, waving off Celeste's warning. Strong-willed and wealthy in her own right, she rarely gave a fig for Celeste's attempts to counsel her. "I fear 'tis not just birds we must contend with. You _must_ cry foul. That man, Lord Whatever His Name Is, has fobbed one off on you. Mark my words, he's counting his guineas and laughing himself silly at you this very moment."

"I'm sure he's not thinking of me at all," Celeste replied, partly because Lord Trestin could have no idea he'd conducted business with a woman, let alone her, and partly because viscounts surely had better things to do than cackle over dishonest transactions.

_Lord Trestin._ Once again, she had the disquieting sense she knew the man, or knew of him. In her line of work, that could well be the case. But try as she might, she couldn't place him.

When she turned to ask Elizabeth if she knew the viscount, her friend released a long-suffering sigh. "No, indeed not. Most men spare us no thought unless we're directly under them."

Tom's eyes widened.

Celeste placed a firm hand on Elizabeth's arm and thrust her friend toward the door. "Tom, please check the straps on our baggage. After I have another look about, Mrs. Inglewood and I will take rooms in the village until the cottage can be made habitable."

With that, Celeste pushed Elizabeth inside the darkened house and pulled the door closed. "Mind your tongue, Elizabeth! We can't have our staff thinking us vulgar, for that is precisely why we hired new domestics in the first place."

It was impossible to see her expression, but Celeste imagined Elizabeth's gray eyes narrowed. "I said nothing untrue."

Celeste expelled a frustrated breath. "That doesn't give you license to behave shockingly. We must break ourselves of the habit of being--"

"Ourselves?"

Celeste pressed her lips together. "Precisely."

Elizabeth made a satisfied _hmph_.

Celeste forced herself to calm. They'd been friends for a decade or more, and Celeste couldn't regret their attachment. Sometimes, she even fancied they were sisters, of a sort.

At other times, she could easily scream. Elizabeth had a good heart, and she was good fun, but she could be stubborn and selfish. Pregnancy had only worsened her intractability.

When Celeste had control of herself, she explained--and not for the first time--"If we become pariahs here, your baby will never escape the stigma of her birth. Is that what you wish?"

"I know what is best for my _son_. Really, Celeste."

Celeste simmered silently. Leave it to Elizabeth to act the authority on a subject she cared nothing about.

Fabric rustled as Elizabeth folded her arms over her protruding stomach. "I can see you won't believe I'm committed to this endeavor without proof. Very well, for _once_ I shall pretend to be interested in domestic matters. This house is a shambles. No amount of effort can make it habitable. I strongly suggest we cry off."

"It's not as bad as that." But even as the protest passed Celeste's lips, a chill swept from the front parlor into the hall.

"You see? We'll freeze to our deaths. And what of the baby?" Elizabeth patted her rounded belly with just enough maternal concern to seem convincing. Given her tendency to behave as though she wasn't increasing, Celeste found it a manipulative attempt to sway the argument.

But as much as she'd like to accuse Elizabeth of using her confinement as an excuse to return to London, Celeste couldn't disagree with her on this. She'd lectured Elizabeth on the need to consider her unborn child so often that claiming this drafty, leaking cottage was an acceptable place to raise an infant was impossible, even if she loathed giving up when they were so close.

And they were _very_ short on time.

Celeste attempted to sound convincing. "Once we have a warm fire going in the grate, and a few men to make repairs, I'm certain we'll be comfortable here. A week or two is all we need to settle ourselves in."

Yet she was surprised to hear wistfulness in her voice. Devon could become more than a respite, if only her friend would see its charm. The gently rolling landscape sectioned by neat hedgerows and limestone cottages sparkled with promise. All that remained was for them to introduce themselves without incident and they would be free to start over, as though the last twenty years hadn't affected them at all.

When Elizabeth spoke, her voice sounded just as contemplative. "What if we don't have a week?"

Celeste rested her hand over Elizabeth's. It was the first time she'd heard Elizabeth acknowledge what was to come, and her heart warmed.

A solid kick thumped hard enough for Celeste to sense it. The babe! She'd never imagined herself with a child of her own. A woman in her position simply didn't. Nevertheless, even Celeste could marvel at the new life stirring beneath her hand. Impossible to think in just a few short weeks, they'd not be alone.

"The midwife said you had perhaps a month," she reminded Elizabeth. "To be safe, you ought to begin your confinement as soon as we settle into the Hound and Hen. You needn't return here until I have everything sorted."

Elizabeth nodded, her silence thick with unspoken fear.

Celeste kept her own worry private. Elizabeth was frighteningly close to term. She hadn't wanted to leave London, and so had put off retiring to the country until the last possible moment. When she'd finally capitulated, they'd left as quickly as Celeste could have their things packed into the carriages, lest Elizabeth change her mind. They'd brought only Celeste's trusted housekeeper, Hildegard, and a few domestics they'd hired along the way.

They had never tried to summon a midwife. They hadn't encountered a nursemaid, or even a governess. It would be weeks before someone with experience could be acquired from London. What did she know about babies? What did either of them know?

"I'm scared," Elizabeth whispered, her icy fingers stiff in Celeste's hand.

Celeste gave her hand a squeeze. Surely it was better for Elizabeth to be wary than complacent. So much could go wrong in childbirth, and then there was the baby to raise after that. This acknowledgement of the risks was better than Elizabeth acting as though everything would go on as it had. As if it could.

"I won't leave you alone," Celeste reassured her. "Now, let's make our way to the village before the sun sets. I've no desire to wander an unfamiliar area in the dark."

She turned to open the door and noticed a beam of hazy light breaking through the blackness. "Do you see the sunlight, Elizabeth? If we can plug the hole before we leave, it shouldn't be as cold when we return."

"I suppose it's the least we can do," her friend replied with a touch of resignation. "But I vow there is much more to be done than that."

"In time," Celeste said, refusing to be goaded into another argument. This was the closest she'd ever come to hearing Elizabeth thank her, and she wanted to savor it.

"There's a sewing basket over here." Elizabeth returned and held a wadded cloth toward Celeste. "You must be the one to do it, as I cannot possibly climb up in my condition."

Celeste dragged a low table beneath the damaged rafter and stepped onto the dusty surface, newly determined to make this house a home. Elizabeth finally acknowledging her responsibility was reason enough to remain here. The house seemed to spark acceptance in her friend, perhaps making the inevitable no longer a matter of if, but when.

The front door creaked just as Celeste reached her hands overhead. "Mrs. Inglewood?" Tom called into the hallway. "You have a visitor."

A man's broad form filled the doorway. Celeste had been caught in plenty of compromising positions. Standing tiptoe on a tabletop, her pale hands stretched upward while her hips swayed to maintain her balance, wasn't one of them.

"Good afternoon." The man's cultured voice had the soothing effect of a fine French brandy. It warmed her from her belly to the tips of her toes--the worst sort of feeling, in her line of work.

"Mrs. Inglewood, I presume?"

"I'M AFRAID NOT," the silhouette standing atop the low table replied. Her lithe arms dropped and folded across her breasts, obscuring the distracting curves that had stopped Ashlin Lancester, Lord Trestin, in his tracks.

Ash quietly breathed a sigh of relief. This unexpected temptress _wasn 't_ Mrs. Inglewood, Captain Inglewood's wife. Even if it had been seven years since he'd last allowed himself the amorous company of a woman, he hadn't grown so monstrous that he'd looked lustfully at a lady whose intimate favors rightfully belonged to another man.

He clenched his fist at his side. His vision hadn't adjusted to the dimness of the room, but he could make out enough to see there were two of them. "Them" being women. "Women" being cause for alarm.

"I'm Lord Trestin," he said, for courtesies must be observed, no matter how alarmed he was at the notion of two women encroaching upon his carefully developed sanity.

"A pleasure, my lord," the temptress replied in a velvety voice. And she was a temptress, by God, not the gentle lady he might have expected to encounter, had he expected to encounter a woman instead of Captain Inglewood. This apparition, whose full breasts and tiny waist had been clearly outlined by the light above her, was an altogether different creature than the kind usually found in Brixcombe-on-the-Bay.

He'd lived here his entire life, so he ought to know.

"I'm Miss Smythe." Her arm extended toward the second woman, who appeared enormously _enceinte_. "She is Mrs. Inglewood."

So Mrs. Inglewood _was_ here. He trained his sight on the rounded silhouette. If only he could see in the dark, he could form a more complete picture of them. His new neighbors. _Who were women._

What the devil was going on? Captain Inglewood hadn't mentioned anything about a wife or female wards or women of any kind in his correspondence--Ash would have remembered if he had. When a man was as plagued by females as Ash was, he took note of that sort of thing.

He stopped himself there. Even _he_ could hear how mistrustful he sounded. Just because there were two women and ten hatboxes didn't mean he ought to be suspicious. He'd stopped off here to welcome his new neighbor, not frighten the man's thoroughly pregnant wife. The least he could do was inquire after Mrs. Inglewood's health, for likely she should be in bed, not traipsing across the moors unattended. The poor woman must be exhausted standing this long.

Ash stepped into the front parlor and easily navigated around the late vicar's favorite chair. It was a parlor he knew as well as his own, perhaps better, and now it had a new owner to restore it. One who would soon have a child to bring laughter and innocence back into a home that had stood empty for far too long. He ought to be happy, not quiz the women to discomfort.

The smile he pasted on his face felt like skin stretched over his teeth. Smiling wasn't asked of him often. He likely _should_ practice, for he understood London's debutantes appreciated a bit of charm, and despite his decision to remain celibate these last few years, eventually, he must take a wife.

There were scant weeks left for him to acquire any charm before he made his debut into the _ton_.

He inclined his head toward the tall woman before him. Not the temptress, but the second woman. Despite her advanced condition and his complete lack of experience in such matters, Mrs. Inglewood held herself with a negligence that seemed out of character. As though a swollen belly had been placed on an otherwise exquisite woman, and she took no notice of it.

It was an uneasy feeling he had, but one he couldn't shake. A soon-to-be mother ought to look...maternal. Shouldn't she?

He nodded to her. "The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Inglewood." He tried to sound as though he meant it. Likely his wariness resulted from his surprise at finding them here alone, and was not an actual cause for concern. And yet...

"When I saw a carriage headed toward the old Amherst property," he said to her, "I expected to find your husband. I didn't see him in the drive. Is Captain Inglewood about?"

Both women stiffened.

Ash took a wider stance against the ancient floorboards, as though preparing for a quarrel. Distrust was habit for him, he reminded himself. Not a cause for alarm.

Then Miss Smythe said, "The captain is detained," in that slow, curling voice that made him think of hot baths and bed sheets, and he knew she was lying.

Mrs. Inglewood glanced at her companion. "Yes, my lord. The captain is at sea, where he much prefers to be."

Ash had been the sole guardian of his sisters for seven years. His ability to detect falsehoods was sharper than he'd ever wanted it to be.

"I see," he said, maintaining an even tone. "Will he be coming soon, then? I apologize if I've confused things. I expected him at the end of next week, otherwise I would have had the house opened for your arrival. It's dreadfully cold in here."

Miss Smythe's voice coursed through him as if she'd whispered directly into his ear. "Oh, do be sure that I had no _idea_ the cottage was in such a deplorable state, my lord, or certainly I would have sent word ahead."

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight, as if she'd touched him. But he had neither a desire to be aroused nor an interest in being set down.

"Deplorable?" He caught on the word that made him feel he'd done something wrong. "I meant to open it, as I said, and I would have done had I known to expect you. I regret any inconvenience I have caused."

Mrs. Inglewood's voice sounded more like a pout than a reproof. "There's a wretched hole in the roof. It quite puts me out to think what manner of creature might have crawled through it. If I discover a bat hanging alongside my gowns, I hope you'll feel inclined to offer recourse."

_Monetary_ recourse? He stood taller. Oh, he understood their game now. They were about to be sorely disappointed. He wouldn't be manipulated by a pair of softly rounded specters with sirens' voices.

"There is no hole," he said firmly.

A flash of white teeth gave Miss Smythe's smile away. "Oh, but there is," she assured him. "I simply lift my hand like this," she slowly, ever so slowly, raised her palm toward the thatching, "and a cool breeze reassures me of my correctness."

"Impossible."

"Impossible there is a hole, or impossible you do not know of it?"

Her languid teasing knocked his thoughts into a jumble. Too late, he realized that must be where the light was coming from. He must have lost his senses completely not to have noticed it.

He steeled himself against her assault as she continued, "You may join me on this tabletop, my lord, if it will set your mind at ease."

Oh? His first instinct was to cross the room and climb up beside her. If that was what she wanted, far be it for the gentleman in him to decline. She'd have to cling to him for balance. He'd be sure to hold onto her tightly, too. But just the fact that he'd _envisioned_ such a shocking scenario was testament to the dangerousness of this woman.

When had he ever seriously considered giving in to something so thoroughly _inappropriate_?

"Who are you?" he demanded. He couldn't help but feel he deserved answers from these women. Honest answers.

Miss Smythe's chin notched. "I'm Miss Smythe. Or do you mean what am I doing here? I'm Mrs. Inglewood's companion."

She stopped at that, perhaps expecting that as a gentleman by birth--he almost smiled; if not by his _manner_ s, which he must admit, were not in top form today--he wouldn't probe further.

He _shouldn 't_ probe. He should remember himself and not allow her forwardness to provoke him, as was too often an occurrence with his sisters. A true gentleman would no more question her character or demand her references than he would ask her to leave. Especially as she'd done no wrong, at least nothing that he could accuse her of directly. Did crawling into the darker recesses of his mind, places even he'd forgotten existed, count as wrong?

He had a feeling that everything about her was wrong. He had no proof, yet he sensed it. Surely a paid companion would be meek, and not slide her eyes down his body in frank assessment.

He could _feel_ her assessing him, despite the darkness. Like fingernails drawing along his skin, he sensed the path of her eyes over his shoulders, his hips, his--

Who was this woman?

"Miss Smythe was kind enough to accompany me in my confinement," Mrs. Inglewood said, coming forward.

He blinked. He'd almost forgotten her, so wrapped up was he in Miss Smythe.

Silently, he cursed the weakness that made him aware of Miss Smythe at all. He would not be like his father. He would _not_.

Mrs. Inglewood took another step toward him. "There is _so_ much to organize when one must pick up and move to the country! And then our second carriage broke a wheel on the way, which as you might imagine caused all sorts of inconvenience. If not for Miss Smythe, I should have collapsed onto my trunk on the side of the road and sobbed into my kerchief."

She said this with the emphatic feeling of a woman who had been so recently in that helpless situation, and yet...she didn't _seem_ like a watering pot who would sit on the side of the road and cry prettily. Neither woman did. He'd bet a penny they'd sooner unharness their horses and ride to the next town than be overcome by something as tragic as a carriage accident.

He was quickly deciding that he knew their kind of female.

Mrs. Inglewood continued, "My servants will be here tomorrow, and we will be better situated then. But perhaps you will send someone over to open the cottage for us tonight?"

He could almost hear her eyelashes flutter at him. The flirtatious quality of her tone made him certain he was being had.

"It's far too late to risk a trip across the moors today, Mrs. Inglewood. My steward will be over to assess the situation tomorrow. In the meantime, you will both stay at Worston. I insist."

Not because he delighted at the thought of bringing them under his roof. Indeed, he could think of little less he wanted to do than introduce them to his sisters. Nevertheless, he couldn't leave Mrs. Inglewood and her companion unattended two miles from town and on the outskirts of the moor. He imagined Mrs. Inglewood would be much more comfortable in a real bed, and there was no denying the existence of a vicious draft.

He wouldn't stand before the captain and let it be known he'd left the man's wife in a freezing, darkened cottage that seemed to be infested with...birds?

Yes, birds. Their tweeting filled the rafters, now that he'd noticed it. He'd better have a look tomorrow. Things were not adding up.

In the meantime, they must accompany him to Worston; there was no getting around it. It was hardly Mrs. Inglewood's fault that he was shamefully aware of her voluptuous companion, or that he'd been deceived so frequently by his sisters that he'd come to suspect the whole of their sex. He couldn't allow his unproven misgivings to affect his better judgment.

Miss Smythe's languorous voice recalled him to present company. "You're more than generous, my lord, but that won't be necessary. We'll stay in Brixcombe. We passed the Hound and Hen as we drove through the village. It's perfectly adequate for our needs."

"But Cele--" the other woman started.

Miss Smythe shushed __ her.

Ash looked from one woman to the other, his wariness returned in full force. The dutiful companion silencing her employer? He thought not. Things were definitely not adding up.

"Miss Smythe," he started, but she interrupted him.

"My lord, since you are here, we might as well inquire about the crack in the north wall." She said this matter of factly, without any of the silky invitation that had enraptured him but a moment ago. "I'm sure it's the tree outside that's causing it."

His eyebrow lifted at her sudden change of tone. Not because she had the effrontery to suggest he'd hawked a less-than-quality property to her, but because if Mrs. Inglewood was the mistress in this relationship, he'd eat his stocking. Miss Smythe obviously commanded the show.

"My lord?" she prompted him.

"Pardon my ignorance," he replied, aware he was nettled by his certainty she was lying to him, "but I have never noticed a tree encroaching on the house."

Her velvety laugh rubbed him the wrong way. "Anyone would see it, my lord, if they but looked the place over. It's visible from the drive."

What the devil was she talking about? He'd never seen a crack in a wall. If one existed, he certainly hadn't meant to sneak it past a prospective buyer. The late vicar had been his tutor when he was a boy, and he'd spent many happy hours here before Mr. Amherst had gone onto his reward. When he'd listed the property for sale, he'd imagined the house as he'd seen it last: filled with love and laughter.

"The sweet chestnut, the pollard oak, or the sycamore?" Ash asked, because he truly couldn't place it, and he did not like feeling disordered.

It was her turn to pause. "The...tree?"

He began to wish he'd fetched his steward before embarking on this spontaneous welcome mission. "There are many trees. Surely you don't expect _recourse_ if you can't identify the precise tree that is causing your distress."

"I'd be more than happy to show it to you," she replied sweetly.

He had a feeling what she wanted to show him were her knuckles. She wasn't well-bred enough to disguise her low opinion of him.

Mentally, he struck another mark against her--not that he was keeping a tally of her points and faults. He was simply too aware of her not to make a concerted effort to remember why he must remain suspicious of her.

"By all means, Miss Smythe," he said, "lead the way."

"Miss Smythe," Mrs. Inglewood cut in with an edge, "I'm sure it would be just as well if we went to Worston and allowed Lord Trestin to look it over with his steward on the morrow..."

Her voice trailed as it became obvious there was no stopping her "companion." Before Ash could offer his assistance, Miss Smythe stepped off the table. With more grace than Ash had in his entire body, she dropped to the floor and swayed past him.

Truly, he'd never met a woman like her in all his life.

He turned and followed her into the hallway. She _must_ have come down from the city. She positively reeked of excitement. High spirits. Yes, sin. He steeled himself, focusing his eyes on the back of her poke bonnet instead of the seductive sashay of her hips.

Women like her meant one thing: trouble. But what had he done to deserve it?

**Chapter 2**

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ELIZABETH FOLLOWED CELESTE and Lord Trestin outside, much to Celeste's dismay. Celeste stopped suddenly, intending to dissuade her friend from exerting herself. Lord Trestin slammed into her back. He caught her shoulders and steadied her, sending frissons of awareness through her.

The moment she found her balance, he released her and took too many steps away. She moved away from him, too, feeling shaken to have reacted so intrinsically to his nearness. She'd been touched more intimately than that yet felt nothing at all for so long, she'd almost forgotten what desire felt like.

When she turned to address Elizabeth, she had her first good look at Lord Trestin in the light. He was deliciously well-formed. Especially for a lord, the majority of whom, in her experience, tended to be either soft or reedlike.

Not Lord Trestin. Broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist. If the hard curve of his thigh was any indication, he was solid muscle beneath his tight-fitting breeches. In other circumstances, she would have enjoyed having such a man tangle himself in her skirts.

To be perfectly truthful, she did not much mind in these circumstances, either.

He looked away quickly. "You look peaked," he said to Elizabeth. "Wouldn't you prefer to rest inside the carriage while Miss Smythe and I attend to the tree? I should blame myself if you took ill."

He sounded so genuinely concerned--and they were so little accustomed to that--that a heartbeat thumped before either woman could form a response.

"Please," he said, sending unwanted shivers through Celeste's belly. "Miss Smythe will be perfectly safe with me."

The initial surprise in Elizabeth's gray eyes turned to worry, just enough to be overdone. "I couldn't possibly leave my companion in a _compromising_ position, my lord. It wouldn't be at all the thing."

Her implication that he had less-than-noble intentions drew Lord Trestin up in admirable, if comical, affront. He was in far more danger from Celeste than she was from him, for he was indeed a gentleman.

She was no lady.

Flags of color at the mere _suggestion_ he had untoward thoughts brightened his tanned cheeks. "I assure you, Miss Smythe will come to no harm."

Elizabeth turned to hide her smile. Celeste covered hers with a strangled cough. A rake he was not.

When his gaze fell on her, however, she felt his probing stare down to her toes. Gooseflesh pebbled along her arms. A rush of longing familiar yet distant, like a forgotten memory, sped her pulse.

Then he glanced away without a care, not the least bit interested in what he saw.

_Dismissed?_

Not that she wished him to linger overlong on her form. Rather, not that she should _wish_ him to desire her. In other circumstances, he would be precisely the kind of man she would want in her bed. From the velvety sheen of his coat to the leathery smell of his freshly polished Hessians to the perfectly tailored cut of his breeches, he looked every inch the part of a lord.

Here in Brixcombe, a man like him was a nuisance, a distraction from her purpose: to leave all of that--the sex, the money, the long, lonely hours wondering if she would be visited that night--behind.

"I can see you still suspect me of taking advantage of the situation," he said to Elizabeth, sounding horrified by the thought. "Certainly, I never meant to suggest anything fast."

"Not fast, exactly," Elizabeth said mock-solemnly. "We've the baby to consider. Surely you must realize that it wouldn't do to have impropriety lingering?"

Celeste choked again as Elizabeth slid her a mischievous look. She never could resist an opportunity to torment an easy mark.

But he nodded slowly, as though she'd struck a chord he understood. "Indeed, Miss Inglewood. We must protect our families."

Celeste bit her lip as an aching tenderness spread through her. Oh, goodness. Her greatest weakness was touching men.

She smiled at her pun. Truly, she _must_ stop thinking like a courtesan. She must learn to be Miss Smythe, spinster companion to an officer's wife whose husband was away at sea. She must not see a prospective lover whenever she looked at a handsome man.

But as she observed Lord Trestin take Elizabeth's arm and set off around the house, she realized it wasn't the thought of a lover that had turned her insides to mush. Lord Trestin knew the bonds that held a family together. Elizabeth was learning--slowly. What did _she_ know? That mothers were selfish, fathers indifferent, and siblings a treasure other people were lucky enough to possess.

Celeste shut away the maudlin thoughts. She marched around the side of the cottage and quickly caught up to Lord Trestin and Elizabeth. This was not the time to become melancholy over what might have been.

A fissure in the cottage's limestone wall shot up from the base of a nearby tree, a topic she was far more interested in exploring. She placed a hand on the tree's knotted trunk and addressed Lord Trestin. "This is the tree that must come down."

She made the mistake of looking into his face. Now that they'd traded the dark parlor for sunlit shrubbery, she could see the color of his eyes. Not brown, exactly, but golden. With just the barest indication of warmth, they would turn molten--but she did not have to worry herself there. He appeared perfectly calm and unmoved when he said, "I forbid it."

She was momentarily struck dumb. The property was hers. He couldn't _forbid_ it. Nevertheless, she couldn't discredit the proprietary way he'd spoken. He hadn't accepted the transaction was complete.

She refused to look weak. "It's the only way to secure the foundation. If you prefer not to have one of your groundskeepers show good faith and remove the tree, I'll hire a laborer from the village."

" _You_ will?"

Drat. A mistake. __ "I would hardly ask Mrs. Inglewood to take on the task in her condition. Would you?"

His gaze flicked to Elizabeth, who made wide, innocent eyes in return. His censure tempered, for he seemed to consider her something to be handled gently.

Celeste could have easily disabused him of that notion, but to what purpose? If he had a fondness for Elizabeth, she ought to leverage it, not quash it. And if she was in any way jealous that her friend provoked his chivalry in a way she didn't, she must stop it now. A collective rivalry existed among all members of the Muslin Company. Lord Trestin was not worth fighting over.

"Mrs. Inglewood ought to be resting," he said. When his gaze returned to Celeste, traces of the warmth he'd directed at Elizabeth touched on her. His eyes were molten, just as she'd feared.

She tore her gaze away and looked down, seeing the rough bark beneath her hand. She must be careful to behave submissively. As much as she detested meekness, she did not want to give him reason to look closer.

"I wish you would reconsider. The tree is completely unaware of the harm it is doing." His voice had an edge.

Her brows drew together. His argument was absurd, yet he seemed completely serious. That could only mean he had an irrational but unshakable attachment to the tree.

She wasn't much for trees, but she knew enough about irrational attachments. "Perhaps if the _house_ hadn't chosen this specific place on which to build itself, it wouldn't be at odds with the tree."

Lord Trestin did not crack a sheepish smile at her logic. Instead he scowled even darker. "I see no reason to make an effort to salvage what cannot be recovered. This house is damaged beyond all measure. I should not have sold it."

"Not have sold it?" Her belly sank as she realized he would rather keep the tree intact than have her for a neighbor.

But that was silly. She shouldn't care. She didn't even know him. And yet, it felt awful to be passed over for a tree.

He regarded her with a touch of regret. A compassionate emotion that made her want... What, exactly?

"Yes, Miss Smythe," he said in a resigned voice, "it really is unfit."

She went cold. _Damaged. Unfit._ Her gaze fell to the trunk again. It was a great, old tree, one that had stood for generations. She didn't think that was why he preferred the tree over her.

"It's just one crack, my lord," she tried again. "The entire roof needs to be thatched anew, and the rafters are molding, yet I heard you say nothing about that."

"No matter how many cosmetic improvements you make, the house will always have a defect through its very heart." He indicated the jagged fracture. "A new roof won't change that."

She pressed her lips together. This house was hers. It _could_ be made whole again.

A breeze rustled the branches overhead. She looked up. And up. The tree was vast, soaring above the cottage's roof. In her concern for the cracked wall, she hadn't spared the tree much thought. Now that she let herself look at it, truly see it, she realized there was more to this tree than she'd originally thought.

A little clapboard house, set high in the branches and decayed by time, creaked in the wind. Her heart contracted, imagining the boy Lord Trestin must have been. Surely, this had been his treehouse.

How different his childhood must have been from hers. Even the pleasure of a new doll had been denied her, for her mother had been selfish, almost a child herself, barely sparing the coin required to feed her only daughter.

Lord Trestin had been given a tree house, a refuge of his own. She knew this had been his, even though he didn't say so. The truth was there in his rigid bearing and the troubled look he was doing his best to suppress. Taking down this tree meant hacking at a memory he cherished. Could she do that?

Was she worth it?

She stood tall and looked into his eyes. She allowed her emotions to run free for just this instant--then they would be boxed and stored again. She hoped he would see her empathy and know she was worthy of shepherding this property he held dear. "This is not about the crack, is it?"

His eyes flicked upward to the treehouse. Jealousy stabbed her sharp and quick, for no one had cared as much for her as he seemed to care for a few rotted boards.

Then he recovered himself and turned back to her. He no longer looked resigned. "I must be frank with you, Miss Smythe, though I should not fall on such poor manners as a matter of course. In various moments I find myself doubting the existence of Captain Inglewood. I'm a man of little humor and even less patience. I do not take lies lightly. _That_ is what this is about."

A chill went down her spine. Suddenly she recalled where she'd heard the name _Lord Trestin._ Every lightskirt knew of Adam Lancester, the whoremonger who had been murdered almost a decade ago by his unamused wife. The Cyprian Corps, usually a jaded lot, had wept for their slain patron. Celeste could never forget that, even if she'd never known Adam personally.

Goodness. If anyone could tell a whore from ten paces, it ought to be this man. Adam's son.

But _did_ Lord Trestin suspect them of harlotry? Or did he merely question their story? He'd been so baldly honest, she had to believe he would accuse them outright if he doubted their purity.

He continued to watch her with an unfathomable look. "If you wish to leave Devonshire, I'll gladly void the bill of sale and return your bank note."

_Your_ investment _. Your_ payment _._ Though it was unclear whether he knew them to be Cyprians, he was testing her story. He didn't believe there was a Captain Inglewood. Ironic, as there was in fact a captain who had fathered Elizabeth's child. And he was paying for them to be here, in a way. He was even at sea--adrift in a sea of skirts, if Elizabeth's bitter ranting was to be believed.

This was not the first time Celeste had been unwanted, nor was it the first time her vast bank account ensured she couldn't be ejected. For though Lord Trestin had offered to nullify their agreement, he had no ability to do so without her consent.

She stood straighter. "I would never put the good _captain_ through the trouble of reneging. He wouldn't appreciate us declining so generous a living as he has provided for us here."

A flash of pique passed across Lord Trestin's face. "A young woman accustomed to the delights of the city is like to become bored in Devon. Then who will have gone through a lot of trouble?"

Oh, he was good. She hadn't been a courtesan for eighteen years--or reached the age of three and thirty--without learning when a man had gained the upper hand. But she must not allow him to cow her, for in truth there was no time to find another cottage before Elizabeth began her confinement.

"If it is dull here, then it's all for the better. Too much fun can tax one's energy," Celeste returned.

He flinched at the word _fun_.

"Do you agree, my lord?"

"No."

Their gazes caught, locked. Despite his suspicions, in spite of her earlier vow to be everything pious and good so as not to cast a shadow over Elizabeth's innocent babe, awareness shot through her. It was entirely one-sided, for never had a man looked at her with so much...nothingness.

She was accustomed to the scorn of ladies. Knew well the lustful, heated looks of their husbands, and the jealous glares of lesser whores. She'd been given the cut direct, spat upon, and groped in darkened alcoves. But she'd never been regarded as though she wasn't worthy of the effort it took to form a reaction.

She quickly recovered her composure, for that was what women in her situation did. This was _her_ rundown property on the edge of a little-known hamlet, nestled between an unforgiving moor and a less-forgiving sea. Hers to share with Elizabeth and the babe, and nothing about their arrangement involved Lord Trestin. Because she hadn't foreseen him. Not his shrewdness nor his high-handedness nor his very maleness--that masculine conceit she found so very, very attractive.

If only he didn't live next door. It must infuriate him to know he could do nothing but disapprove of her. He could not evict her. He could not gainsay her. He could only look at her and go a little mad every time he thought of whatever it was she had done to make him object to her so passionately.

**Chapter 3**

****

ASH LEFT THE old Amherst property in a thunder of hooves and ill thoughts. He'd been careful to spare nothing more than a glance for Miss Smythe as he'd seen her and Mrs. Inglewood to the Hound and Hen, depositing them there against his better judgment. Or was it brilliance on his part? He'd had to choose between having them near his sisters or setting them down at the local inn. It had barely been a choice at all.

If he were honest, he was more relieved to be free of Miss Smythe than to know he'd kept her apart from his sisters. It wouldn't do to encourage her and that was that. He was an unmarried peer and she was... Well, he had yet to determine precisely what she was. That was exactly why his thoughts were upside down.

He forced his body to ease now that he was headed in the opposite direction from her. Women enjoyed thwarting him; incontrovertible evidence he was cursed. Worse, they enjoyed a challenge. To Miss "Smythe," their sparring was exciting. She'd sent him heated looks from the moment he'd made it clear he wouldn't be tempted by her wiles.

He stopped himself there, before he disparaged her any further. Had she truly tried to seduce him with her eyes, or had he only seen his own wild passions reflected there?

Either way, her effect on him was the same. He had no use for a woman of her brazen nature, nor did he appreciate her stealing into the carefully patrolled shadows of his mind. Good God, the way she'd looked at him when he'd torn his gaze away...the scorching, sensual lift of her eyebrow, the near-imperceptible intake of her breath, was almost enough to make him regret his last seven years of abstinence.

His body tightened again and he shifted in his saddle. Was he never going to get that image out of his head? Damn her. He could not allow lust to override his sense. If he couldn't control his traitorous body, he must at least keep a clear head. His sisters depended upon it.

Drawing to a halt in the white gravel drive of Worston Heights, he tossed his reins to a groom and took the granite steps two at a time. He tucked a package containing his sisters' new tongs and ribbons beneath the voluminous folds of his greatcoat just before he entered--though he had little expectation of encountering them in the hall. That was another matter altogether.

His heels clicked against the entryway. He handed his black beaver hat to his butler, Nordstrom, and glanced at a Morbier clockwork diligently keeping time.

Half five. His jaw tightened. He was late.

"My lord, did you encounter Fickett in Brixcombe?" Nordstrom asked calmly as he wiped dust from the felt brim with a clean cloth.

The mention of his footman brought Ash to attention. "Are my sisters missing again?"

"Oh, no, my lord." Nordstrom clasped the hat behind his back. "You were."

He? Missing? Miss Smythe even had his servants upside down.

But it amused him to imagine his footman combing the moors for his helpless carcass. He constantly worried his sisters would be sucked into a bog or tumble down the side of a cliff. "I'm touched you noticed."

Nordstrom, ever stately, regarded him with all the emotion of a boiled turnip. "I think it my duty to be concerned about you, my lord."

Ash glanced again at the Morbier. "You needn't have. I suspect that clock is running fast."

Nordstrom glanced at the expensive timekeeper he'd no doubt wound himself. "I should never disagree with you, my lord."

Ash cracked a smile at that. "No, you should not."

Nordstrom straightened. "Then I must accept all responsibility for creating unnecessary alarm. Routine is the bedrock of a well-run house, as you are fond of reminding us, and when Evans informed me you did not arrive for your toilette, I worried some ill fate had befallen you. Knowing as how you are always advising the Misses Lancester of the dangers present on the moors, I think I was not wholly in the wrong."

Ash's fingers curled into his palm. There was definitely something dangerous lurking about the moors. A vixen with a succubus's body and a quick tongue.

"If you say you are not wrong, Nordstrom, then I'm inclined to agree with you. In my defense, I've never been required to escort anyone off the old Amherst property. The day doesn't lack for larks, does it?"

Nordstrom's hands fell to his sides in his surprise, leaving Ash's hat to dangle from his fingertips. " _True_ danger, my lord! I see nothing funny in your coming upon lurkers."

"Lurkers? Much worse, Nordstrom. Women."

"Women, you say?" Nordstrom's jaw hung nearly open.

"I was just as incredulous."

"I should think so! Are the ladies from London, then?"

"They're not ladies. But yes, I think they are from Town." Ash paused. "What an odd thing to ask. How did you know?"

"I didn't, my lord," Nordstrom replied with a straight face. "How could I? I've been here all day."

Ash shot his butler a warning look, the same testing suspicion he turned on his sisters from time to time. "Should you hear anything of interest, inform me without delay."

"Yes, my lord." Nordstrom's face closed once more, giving the impression he would walk about with his fingers in his ears to avoid any such unpleasant discussions in the future.

Then he blinked, as though he'd just recalled a message. "Your sisters were __ indeed about," he said, causing Ash to stiffen. "They returned their mounts only just ahead of yours. Stevens sent word but a minute ago."

"He might have not saddled their horses to begin with," Ash grumbled, though he knew it was futile to chide his servants. His staff were the best eyes and ears he had, but he suspected their allegiances lay with the younger members of his household.

With a nod of thanks to Nordstrom, Ash took himself up to dress for dinner. Aside from his strict rule on arriving clean and neat, freshening up now was a stall tactic. He and his sisters butted heads often enough when he was in a pleasant mood. It didn't improve his humor to know he must now withhold the treat he'd gone through so much effort to obtain.

At least ribbons and tongs would hold until a more appropriate time. Unlike the morning he'd tried to surprise Lucy with a special birthday breakfast, only to have her lie abed until three in the afternoon. He still believed she'd slipped out of her window for those hours she'd allegedly been snuggled beneath her blankets.

Miss Smythe posed a definite danger. Lucy was too obstinate even without encouragement. She'd adore her new neighbor, and he could do nothing to stop their association. His sisters had been his wards until they'd reached their majority, but he had no right to dictate to Miss Smythe, no authority over her at all. She could lie to him or corrupt Lucy and he was powerless, because he'd signed the papers that made it so.

He paused in tying his cravat. It was driving him mad to waver between conviction and reproach. _Was_ Miss Smythe lying? Or was he seeing villainy where it didn't exist? Lucy and Delilah certainly accused him of that enough. Could his appalling physical response to the strikingly beautiful woman be causing him to seek out a plausible excuse to push her away?

He frowned. Either way, she was to live right next door. It was enough to send him to Bedlam.

At six of the o'clock, he arrived in the drawing room only to discover his sisters were not there waiting for him. His hand clenched at his side. Was he to have no peace today?

He turned on his heel and nearly collided with Nordstrom. "Where are my sisters?"

"The Misses Lancester?" Nordstrom replied with perfect bafflement, causing blood to pound against Ash's temples.

"No, Nordstrom, my other sisters."

"Ah, yes," his butler replied, as if he'd just remembered. "Miss Delilah asked me to relay a message. They shall not be down until half six."

How Nordstrom managed to remain stately while delivering such drivel never ceased to amaze Ash. But it happened damn near every evening. Nordstrom was wrapped around the girls' thumbs just as thoroughly as Ash was. If Ash thought it would help, he'd practice looking foreboding in a new and different way, mayhap gain a modicum of the respect due him as head of the household. Instead, he merely grunted his disapproval for Nordstrom's misplaced allegiance and moved on.

The cherry-paneled dining room was too large for one man to dine in by himself. Nevertheless, it was his dining room. Custom dictated he eat in it. He seated himself at the head of the long, polished table and beckoned for a glass of Bordeaux. If he was to dine alone, he may as well do his best to entertain himself.

Approximately halfway through the veal, his footmen snapped to attention. Lucy and Delilah entered the grand room, their black hair damp and coiled at the top of their heads. Their batiste gowns rustled in the silence. Relief that they were safe swept through him, directly followed by impatience. The family's routine hadn't changed in a dozen years. Why must they be late every night?

Ash set his fork on a serviette and rose. As the girls' chairs scraped the stone floor, they exchanged a wary glance.

"We found a delightful little bridge--"

"Brixcombe is so enchanting this time of year--"

"Stop there," Ash said, sitting again and taking up his fork. "Let me have the truth, without fanciful embellishment."

"But it _was_ a nice bridge." Delilah turned limpid brown eyes on him as a footman began serving courses from the beginning. "And a vibrant meadow with little rabbits everywhere."

Ash regarded both of his sisters for several long seconds. He detested interrogating them as much as they found his questions contemptible, yet they left him no choice.

"It is my duty to see you are safe. How am I to do that if I've no idea where you are?"

Delilah widened her eyes innocently at her sister. "But we were perfectly safe, weren't we, Lucy?"

"We're here now, so I would say yes. Very safe." Lucy speared a carrot and popped it into her mouth, likely so she couldn't answer his next question.

"Suppose I ask Fickett to accompany you tomorrow?" Ash was not above coercion. He was their brother, and even if they'd ceased to be his wards in the legal sense, he would never relinquish his responsibility for them. He must do everything in his power to ensure their reputations remained impeccable. As he couldn't chase them all over Creation himself, he would do the next best thing: have them supervised.

"Oh, Trestin, why must you be so unfair?" Lucy murmured after an audible swallow, frowning at him as though he'd just disappointed her.

Annoyance that she must make him feel a beast shot through him. Perhaps nonsensically, he continued to believe that if he only tried hard enough, he could convince them to behave with propriety. Else neither girl would marry properly, an outcome he refused to accept. They _must_ make good matches. He'd devoted the last seven years to it.

Though sometimes--such as now--he wondered if any respectable man would have the courage to take on either of his sisters. They were no biddable girls, his wards, a fault he laid wholly at the feet of his own poor tutelage.

Feeling embarrassed by his failure to raise them properly, he retreated into the comforting repetition of rules. Rules gave one's life order. They kept a person from weaving too far from the straight and narrow and prevented one from floating away on a fancy.

"It's hardly unreasonable for two unmarried girls to exhibit a level of decorum," he reminded her. "'Decorum' means no sneaking out of the house when I am out, and absolutely no running amok through fields and whatever else has you looking so healthy."

"Needlework and watercolors are boring," Delilah complained, jabbing her fork into a carrot.

"Then play the pianoforte. Fish in the pond if you must. But for God's sakes, stay on the property."

"It was only to Brixcombe," Lucy replied coolly. "At least we might go that far."

She made him feel like an unreasonable cad. Imagine if _he_ were allowed to do every little thing he wished, with no one there to see.

An image of Miss Smythe's glorious bosom left him breathless. _Precisely._

"What will you do if you arrive in London and everyone thinks you're a pair of hoydens?" he asked. "Who will marry you then?"

Both young women looked daggers at him. Neither girl had any notion how thoroughly London had mocked their father's promiscuity, or how easily they could be accused of the same. Ash had kept them here through the scandal, and for too many years after that. They were too sheltered to realize how quickly gossip spread, and over the most trivial things. He'd carefully ordered their world until they were too old to appreciate it.

Lucy broke the silence first. "I do not wish to marry, so what good is my virtue?"

His fork clattered to the table. "For shame, do not say such things in my hearing." He felt nauseated just thinking about her virtue.

Delilah directed a footman to spoon peas onto her plate. "And I wish to marry Gavin, and he doesn't give a fig about my virtue."

Ash ground his jaw. It was his own personal hell to have not one but two sisters intent on following in the family's scandalous footsteps.

He deeply wished to do more than glare. He wanted to lecture and rage and thunder about. But he was frightfully close to alienating them. He could think of little worse than both of his sisters loathing him.

Delilah's pronouncement, however, could not go unremarked. "You will not marry Mr. Conley and that is final. You know my feelings on this. He is--"

"I do know." Delilah clenched her serviette as she came out of her seat. The footman swerved just in time to miss her arm colliding with the blue and white salver of peas in his hand. "We are to be models of femininity, a family living according to the ridiculous standards of the _ton_. Well, I have a thought for you, Trestin. We will never be accepted in Society. Mother and Father made sure of that. Lucy and I are both firmly on the shelf and you have no prospects. So why must you make the three of us miserable, when all we have is each other?"

She threw her serviette onto the table and quit the room. The footman calmly returned to the sideboard, astutely concluding peas were no longer required.

If only it were not a nightly occurrence, the young man might have shown more shock for her outburst.

Lucy turned accusing eyes on Ash as he rose in deference to their sister's embarrassing exit. "She is in love with him," Lucy reminded him tetchily, as though both girls hadn't been informing him nightly of that since the day Delilah had set eyes on the impoverished commoner in whatever mud hut or weedy field in which they had discovered him. That was galling in itself: Ash had not been there when they'd been introduced. What if something untoward had occurred?

He caught himself before his assumptions veered too far from the facts. Yes, he knew Mr. Conley was not actually a peasant. He believed the man meant no harm. That was not the point. Delilah must settle herself respectably, with a kindly man of modest fortune, for her meager dowry was one of Ash's personal regrets and her social standing was mired in their parents' execrable actions.

A mere mister, one who depended upon brute strength for his living, could never provide an income Ash considered comfortable. "He's not good enough."

"Yes, Trestin," Lucy said, snatching a handful of sweetmeats from her plate as she rose, "we know."

She left him to conclude his meal in silence. Pushing his unfinished plate away, he motioned for his glass to be refilled. Another spoiled dinner. How he wished he knew how to talk sense into them. On nights like these, it was easy to wish he had a wife. A soft-spoken, biddable female living in his house, for after seven years of quarreling, his ears were the worse for wear. But more importantly, he desired a helpmate who would offer wise counsel at a time like this.

It was months yet before he could expect such a thing. His sister had spoken truthfully. He had no prospects. In a village as small as Brixcombe, genteel women were not standing about in assembly rooms, waiting to be whisked off their feet. For that he must go to London.

No hardship to his peers, perhaps. To them the city was exhilarating, with debauchery and entertainment to be found on every corner. For himself, going to London had been enough to stop any further thought of marriage cold. London had destroyed his family almost a decade ago. He'd vowed not to set foot in it until he was absolutely certain he was stronger than its lures.

One of those lures had come to dangle before him, right here in his beloved Brixcombe. Not that he believed Miss Smythe precisely _loose_ , though he continued to doubt Mrs. Inglewood's situation. He preferred to leave his questions there unanswered, for his own sanity. But even if his premonition were wrong and Miss Smythe was unblemished and without an untoward thought, he knew for a certain she wasn't the paragon he sought for a wife. By extension, any attraction to her he felt was a distraction.

The thought of avoiding her completely left him curiously disheartened, as if he'd suited up in armor only to learn there was no fight. If he avoided seeing her again, what would it prove?

Nothing. Perhaps instead, he ought to accept __ her arrival in the area as an opportunity to test himself before he actually needed to hold up. He'd built walls around his fortress-like manor and walls around his heart. Invisible walls, but his defenses nonetheless. Morally, he felt stronger than he ever had. The question was, how would he hold?

Even he knew he couldn't put off London forever. Living with his sisters wasn't growing easier. He'd finally saved enough to provide them with modest dowries, and so his last objection to the trip was overcome. He refused to remember how much of those dowries had come from the sale of the vicarage. That transaction had inadvertently drawn Miss Smythe just outside his hedgerows.

He thrust her glorious breasts from his mind as quickly as he could make himself. Nothing but a test. If he must think of a bosom, it should not be that kind of bosom. It should be the motherly kind that would suckle his children. Someone with a bit of passion in her veins, but not so much that he'd begin to feel lecherous. A comely lady who'd understand his love of land and responsibility, who knew how to navigate the _ton_ and could help his sisters find suitable husbands. He wasn't asking much. Surely a woman existed who was saving herself for a man exactly like him.

_Not_ the kind like Miss Smythe. She was the pretty kind. The type who enjoyed her effect on men and knew nothing of country life. Not the kind who would have a quieting effect on his sisters. He didn't need to know if Miss Smythe was who she claimed to be to be sure of her character. It was written all over her perfect, impossibly beautiful face.

When the fire smoldered low in the grate and all that was left of his wine was the dry pucker of tannins, he took himself to bed. When his consciousness dropped into slumber, she came to him. She rode him with wanton abandon, crying his name and scraping her nails against his feverish skin. He awoke at midnight gripping an aching erection. He came into the bedsheet, gasping at the bittersweet pleasure of spending his seed.

Damn her.

When every last drop had been wrung from his body and he began to relax into lethargy, he tore the bedsheet from the mattress and tossed it into a crumpled heap in the corner. Cursing his weakness, he crawled atop the coverlet and lay on his back. The room was cold but he was glad of the chill.

How had she done it? How had she slipped into his head?

It had been seven years since he'd lain with a woman. He accepted his body would seek release when his mind was least guarded against it. But the women he dreamed of had always been faceless. Not someone he knew. Not his _neighbor_.

Shame washed over him. He was better than this. He had to be; he'd worked too hard to control his desire. When he gave in completely, it would be with the right woman: with his wife. For he'd witnessed the effects of the single-minded passion he kept bridled inside. The squandered funds, disregarded duties and brokenhearted loved ones.

But hours later, he was still awake. He flexed his toes toward the ceiling in an attempt to ward off the tightness building again at the mere thought of her. No matter how hard he tried to forget it, the dream remained vivid. He could feel her naked breasts heavy in his hands. Her secret, swollen place wet beneath his fingers. Her hips, so round and full, fitted perfectly against his.

Damn it, but he'd slipped. The bedsheet wadded in the corner proved it. How he wished she'd have accepted his offer to cancel the sale. If she wasn't in Brixcombe, she couldn't tempt him. He needn't worry he'd do something harebrained.

Did that make him a coward? Would he sooner see her and Mrs. Inglewood become vagrants than have them tucked into the cottage where he had acquired so many fond memories as a child?

He was an ogre for wanting to say yes.

He pointed his toes toward the end of the bed, then toward the ceiling. She wasn't leaving. He may as well acclimate himself to it. He should use her presence as a test--a test he'd already failed tonight. But there would be other times. He recognized even from just a single exchange that she was unlikely to cower in the cottage merely because he'd been unwelcoming.

As for buying her out, as much as he'd wanted her to agree to it, without her banknote he couldn't afford to properly dower the girls. In all the years he'd tried to sell the cottage, she'd made the only offer. She was right, he'd been lucky she hadn't looked at the property first.

He paused. When had he become certain she was the buyer, rather than Captain Inglewood?

He was pinning offences on her again. Yet another attempt to vilify her, merely because he couldn't contemplate living next door to her any more than he could contemplate living with his sisters another year.

_Good God, his sisters._ He could only imagine the disaster such a unity of females would cause.

Ash definitely did not sleep after that.

**Chapter 4**

****

ONLY AN INVITATION from the Misses Lancester could have emboldened Celeste to approach Worston Heights.

She shook out her dingy hem and regarded the twin line of birch trees growing unnaturally straight along the drive. Beyond their reach, an imposing, domed edifice sprang from a rocky hill. The unnatural beauty of the park's emerald-colored grass was a subtle indication that the master of these moors valued perfection, no matter the implausibility.

Her differences with him seemed larger than one awkward tea party, to say the least.

She eyed the large onion dome roof gleaming in the sunlight, then her dust-caked hem. She'd walked to Worston so that she might leave her carriage with Elizabeth, who'd pled the headache. Now she looked as haggard as a tavern wench, despite the hours she'd spent before the minuscule mirror in her room at the Hound and Hen.

She could only hope _he_ would not be in attendance to witness her disarray, for she wouldn't turn back now. Her all-consuming desire for Elizabeth's baby to be born in the country, away from the depravity of London, was more important than her vanity. A nod of approval from the local leading ladies would go a long way toward presenting their little family as respectable.

Too, declining would be the height of rudeness and could give the Lancester family reason to look closer. Above all else, she couldn't risk that.

To the house it was, then. The afternoon was blue and clear, with the occasional birdsong carrying on a salty breeze. The lightness of the day was at odds with her trepidation. Did she truly believe his sisters would take one look at her and declare themselves charmed? _He_ certainly had not.

But she was no coward. She marched on, and a quarter hour later she arrived at a set of granite stairs spilling toward the drive. By the time she reached the first step, a tangle of petticoats clung to her legs and her bodice squeezed her lungs. Seeing as how she had her mother's porcelain coloring, her face undoubtedly resembled a battered tomato. It wasn't the way she'd wanted to present herself at Lord Trestin's threshold, even if she'd hoped that he wouldn't be there to witness it.

She paused on the lowest step to retie her bonnet ribbons, which the wind had whipped into a jumble. Just as she finished plumping the wide satin bow gathered under her left ear, Lord Trestin materialized from the side of the house. Her heart slammed to a halt. Goodness, he was fine-looking. She'd almost forgotten how magnificently he wore his plain country garb.

He must have seen her, too, for he switched directions sharply and cut a path directly to her. She steeled herself as he stopped close enough to kiss. His shoulders blocked the sun, but their interlude felt intimate, rather than intimidating.

Not that he betrayed the same sentiment, for his voice remained flat as he touched the brim of his beaver hat. "Miss Smythe, a surprise, to say the least."

His skin was the color of caramelized sugar, speaking of time regularly spent out of doors. His wool coat was the pure black of a devil's heart. An empty wicker basket hooked over each of his arms, just conspicuously enough that she wanted to ask what he was about. She didn't. His face was closed, his eyes indifferent to her. He clearly had no wish for her to engage him in idle chatter.

But she couldn't help admiring his form. She sucked in a breath before she could stop herself. Goodness! What she would have given for a prize like him in London. Even a single night would have capped her already infamous success, like a swirl of whipping cream on a decadent dessert. Yet his eyes didn't widen at her sharp inhalation, nor did a telltale pulse of desire tick at his jaw. Beneath the brim of his beaver, his eyebrows didn't lift with jaded interest. He was so clearly not intrigued by her, it almost pained her.

She smiled prettily at him, careful to mask her feelings. Nothing put off a man faster than a woman's eagerness to engage him.

Not that she should be trying! Yet she couldn't deny she was. She couldn't seem to help herself. Her last few lovers had been connected to previous protectors through the weblike nature of London's demimonde. Not men who she'd intentionally seduced or invited into her bed. Though she'd been amused and pleasured, she'd been ambivalent. Feeling Lord Trestin awaken something within her that she had denied for years made her feel...giddy.

The smile that crept across her lips seemed to bubble from inside her. She couldn't seduce him, of course. That might make him look closer. But if she could _feel_ ...if she could desire a man again...if she could _trust_ ...perhaps her life really could start anew.

She tugged at her cloying skirts as she bobbed a shallow curtsey. "A beautiful day, is it not?"

"Indeed," he murmured, continuing to regard her with his unfathomable gaze. "Are you for the house?"

"I am," she replied, without a hint of the anxiety that plagued her at the thought of ensconcing herself with his sisters. An invitation to the local estate was a customary gesture extended to newcomers, and had she been respectable, she should have expected it. Instead, she'd been astonished to receive the missive. She was convinced that tea at Worston would cement her respectability, and yet she was afraid. Could she present herself as innocent, when she so thoroughly was not?

The answer hinged upon Lord Trestin allowing her to pass. "Your sisters invited me to tea," she said, surprised her voice shook just a bit.

"Did they?" he said, so slowly 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 with the baskets, 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, or make any other gesture of politeness.

She couldn't help herself; she laughed aloud. "It _would_ be, my lord," she said, 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 after their light bantering a moment ago.

It was only a matter of waiting him out. She'd pressed him too far, too quickly, and he'd retreated. His very disinterest in her made him the most interesting man of her acquaintance, though she'd thought she'd long ago accepted the futility in trying to understand men.

With a last, yearning look at the moor, he shifted his baskets to one arm. "Very well. If you don't mind, I'll return these to the garden shed first. Shall we?"

She nodded. 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 ignored his frostiness and looked about. 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 inspired her, as did its gardens. Flowers of every imaginable shape and color budded from hedgerows and shrubbery, exactly as her cottage gardens might look one day, if only she had the imagination to achieve it.

"I never tire of looking at flowers," she announced. "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 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, and 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 sidelong 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 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 gardens.

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 the bouquet 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 didn't reach for 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 tried 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 spun away 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. A 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 Worston's front steps. Yet his starchy insistence that he _wasn 't_ aware of her only underscored how very aware of her he was.

It all made sense now, 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 curved granite steps, her bewilderment gave way to nervousness again. 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 him 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 and take herself as far away as she could possibly get. Before she started wanting 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 woman 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 Devon up this hill, but it was a different time. 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.

Ah, too far again. 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. "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 a courtesan whose makeup caked 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 brushing against his cheeks. "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. How beautiful. "But what about my cottage? You said the exact opposite yesterday."

His gaze held hers. "I lied."

Her head felt light. He continued to regard her as though he could see deep inside her, to where all her most precious wants were hidden. _He 'd lied yesterday._ To drive her away, she was sure of it. 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. She cared what he thought of her. It scared the wits out of her.

He turned and gently steered her down the hallway. "I prefer my 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. He'd meant he didn't like posting houses. "What of your lordship's duties? They must take you away from Worston occasionally."

From the corner of her eye, she detected his grimace. At her question? Or something else? "I have this one property to maintain, which is as well. I'm not a great traveler. I've not left Worston in seven years."

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 if he didn't travel? What did she care about his wants, or the eccentricities that made him human? Were it not for Elizabeth's baby, she would have had no reason to have met him. She had no reason to be in Devon at all.

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. 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 sighed. "I do love them, Miss Smythe. But they have their moments." Then a devilish gleam brightened his eyes, as if a new thought had occurred to him. "Go on, now. They aren't that terrible."

He began to chuckle. Quietly at first, then louder, as if he'd made a joke only he understood. "Not _that_ terrible."

He laughed outright then. It tumbled from him, a rich, satisfying sound that 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 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 ahead of him, 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, and 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.

Miss Lancester wasn't as young as Celeste had expected an unmarried miss to be. Likely she'd had several years to secure a husband. 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 an older brother to see to her 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. "I'm deathly tired of waiting for you while you crawl around in the peach house. Why must you keep us waiting?"

He stiffened. "As you keep me waiting at dinner? More to the point, you knew I wasn't coming. That's why you invited a guest."

She rolled her eyes heavenward. "A guest you've intercepted, and taken about on the most drawn-out walk--"

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 hissed.

"Pardon?"

"I said I should be very pleased when I become Gavin's wife." She bobbed a curtsey 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 was directed to her brother, though it was clear by his exasperation 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 young man who had escorted Celeste with austereness. 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 bit 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 loom behind his sisters.

The girls ignored his 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 then, 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 a 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 she believed herself to be in love. How sad to think that she had as little control over her future as Celeste had known 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, and she just as dearly wanted to marry him. A disagreement like that could only end badly.

IT WAS ANOTHER hour before Celeste managed to escape Worston Heights. She tramped down the drive, not the least convinced she had left any impression on Lord Trestin or his sisters, favorable or otherwise. They'd hardly seemed to know she was there.

It was a shock to realize his family was barely better mannered than a corps of courtesans. Aside from Celeste's naive belief that noble families were flawless, 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 imposing hall, this time seeing its stark perfection as a façade. Lord Trestin did not have as tight a rein on things as she'd been led to believe.

He was still young, she reminded herself. He acted as both father and brother to those girls. 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?

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.

_Who took care of him?_

She turned and wrapped her arms across her middle as a chilling breeze swept the estate. Slowly, she 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 the viscount. This man had hair the color of gilt.

She stopped a ways distant to give him space as he crossed the path, lest she be trampled by his horse. 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 to the man, throwing decorum aside as she ran toward him. 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's life, she couldn't say.

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

**Chapter 5**

****

PERHAPS IT WAS having the biggest gossip in London tumble at her feet that made Celeste's 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 as though 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."

She stepped back, shaken. 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. "Damn and _blast,_ 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?" she asked. "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 crooked 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?"

"Touche." 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, curly hair shining like the guineas he so desperately needed. "You look pretty, though I daresay you're showing less bosom than usual. I suppose it's 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 so, 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 at that. "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 Lumi ere 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 him. It was the reason they had come to be friends.

No, she couldn't tell him, not when she didn't fully understand her sudden wish to pretend everything in her life had gone differently. She decided to reply 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 that inspired her pride.

"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 cocked beneath him at a painfully irregular angle and his 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 rather 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.

To wit, he was watching clouds form 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," she gritted out. "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 a bundle of nerves, far too anxious to laugh, and she was afraid to 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 intend 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 at the thought of baring her past to the viscount was followed by indignation, 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 must maintain her dignity. If the truth came out, she must 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 and slid an arm around Roman's 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."

He did, but not without effort. It took all her strength to boost him onto a horse nearly as many hands high as he. After several tries, they succeeded--if one counted him promptly passing out over the withers of his mount as success.

Celeste tugged the reins gently and began the long walk in the direction of his estate, which he had graciously pointed out before losing his lights. Who would have thought that by the end of the day, she'd have not one but two men fall at her feet? One more literally than the other, but still.

She smiled to herself. She _was_ one of the best.

**Chapter 6**

****

ASH GENTLY PRESSED his palm against the side of his sister's head. "If you don't mind," he drawled, edging Lucy's face away from his reflection in his dressing room mirror, "I should like a moment of privacy in my own home."

Despite his protests, black ringlets and wide brown eyes reappeared next to his in the looking glass. Lord Montborne delighted in teasing Lucy about her plainness, claiming that all the good looks had been reserved for Delilah. That was more out of a sense of fraternity than fact. Lucy wasn't entirely ordinary, and when her eyes lit as they did now, Ash couldn't help but wonder why she'd never turned a man's head.

"Trestin, be serious," she said, grabbing for his white neckcloth, "this cravat is a sin. Evans, what are you thinking? This knot hasn't been seen since 1812."

Ash sighed to himself. He feared _this_ was what kept her at home. High-spiritedness, a trait their parents had possessed in abundance, and which he couldn't seem to moderate in her, no matter how hard he tried.

"I suppose you've learned a few fashionable knots from those plates you and Delilah are so fond of, and are now eager to convince me the expense is warranted?"

Evans, a beanpole with a shock of straw-colored hair, had turned to locate a fresh cravat from the wardrobe. He paused, perhaps thinking his master would call off the lady of the house this once.

Oblivious to the valet's hopefulness, Lucy looked Ash over with a critical eye. "The least you can do is knot it in a more manly way."

Evans had never voiced a peep of disapproval over Lucy's regular presence in the dressing room while she and Ash went over menus and the like. But three and twenty was quite young for a man to keep mum when his talent was impugned, and Ash forgave the lad's quickly strangled bark of offense.

Ash deftly unraveled his cravat and retied it in the simple--and only--way he liked. "Am I allowed to respond to that?" he asked of her jab at his manhood.

In the beveled mirror hanging over his dressing table, her lips turned in an impish smile. "Of course not."

For all of the frustration she caused him, she did make him laugh--only silently, of course. As now, when he wanted to chuckle and pull out his hair at the same time.

He loved her too much to encourage her brazenness. "You do realize that when I am wed, you will no longer be lady of the house. No more ordering my servants about."

"I suppose that is meant to scare me." She widened her eyes with sparkling mischief. "I shall be an old maid in my brother's home, you mean! Nonetheless, not even the threat of living under your wife's assuredly beautiful thumb makes me desire a Season. My mind is quite made up about it."

He ran a hand through his hair, determined not to respond to her refusal to listen to reason. He maintained a steady gaze on his reflection and was equally horrified by what he saw there. Black tufts poked from between his fingers. His hair was overlong.

He caught Evans' eye. The valet nodded and turned to procure the shaving equipment.

"I've always preferred your hair unkempt," Lucy said, coming behind him to tweak his hair into little disheveled tussocks. "You look like a pirate."

"Husbands," Ash reminded her. _Focus. Reality._ Those were the important tasks that kept the world from erupting in chaos.

"Of course. You wish me to be excited about your decision to haul me to London and marry me off."

Good God, the chit could be annoying. Had he said she made him want to laugh?

"I shall never look forward to it," she assured him, brushing away Evan's attempt to snip at his hair with a pair of short shears while she reached for the dish of pomade with the other hand. "But not because I have qualms about London, nor is it men in general I find repugnant. In fact, I rather enjoy a man's company, when he is pleasing and amiable."

She shot Ash a look that clearly stated he wasn't being pleasing or amiable.

Then she smiled beatifically. "The problem is that I have no wish to marry a stranger. Men are difficult enough to manage when one knows their flaws."

"That is a completely inappropriate thought," Ash started, but she cut his lecture short with a few dabs of pomade in his hair.

"Even if I do meet someone I find acceptable," she continued, "twenty-five hundred pounds is nowhere near enough to compensate for my advanced age. I shall be pitied and therefore embarrassed. I know _you_ do not want to cause reason for my embarrassment." She pressed her lips together with a satisfied nod for her oratory skills--and, it was to be assumed, her ability to dress his hair.

He grunted, not the least amused, and scrubbed his hands against the tufts sticking every which way around his head. _She didn 't find her dowry sufficient. She feared she'd be embarrassed in Town._

Worse, she didn't trust herself to attract a man with whom she could be happy. All of these complaints were entirely his fault.

Luckily, she'd turned her attention to the window and the sunny spring day that called him out of doors. It galled him to know how little faith she had in her future. He'd failed to protect her from the pain of their parents' passionate demise. He'd failed to see her wed at eighteen--or nineteen, or even twenty-two--and now she was frighteningly close to never marrying at all.

Yes, she was a bit long in the tooth, but she was still pretty. And if she was a tad set in her ways, well, ways could be changed, with the right motivation.

Which brought him to the niggling suspicion that he couldn't quite shake: Lucy didn't _want_ to be married. For the life of him, he couldn't imagine why. Their parents' unhappy union would make anyone skittish, he supposed, but to not even want to try? It made him think her scared. Yet he couldn't believe he'd sheltered her so much that she was _afraid_ to brave Society. Not his mulish little sister.

He turned away from the mirror, deciding to utilize every weapon in his arsenal to bring her to his side. "If you choose to remain unwed, you will not live in the dower house. It's old and musty and smells like moths. You will remain here, in the hall."

Lucy jammed the lid of the pomade jar down. "I can hardly claim the dower house as my first choice, especially after that picturesque description. But I certainly don't wish to live with you my entire life. At some point, I trust my feelings will be considered."

He recoiled. He _considered_ both girls' futures as thoroughly as his own, every minute it seemed, carefully weighing what was best for them against their wild notions of freedom. He issued orders and put down rebellions and occasionally allowed them to cajole him into extra pin money or a new gown. At times, it seemed all he ever thought about was their feelings. Why did she not see that? What must he do to convince her that all he had at heart were her best interests?

She stepped away from him, though whether it was to allow her to see him better, or for him to see her better, he couldn't tell. "Emancipation will be sweet, Trestin. You mean well, but sometimes you're worse than Mother was."

He sputtered. No one was worse than Mother was. Mother's attempts to dominate those around her had contributed to the ruination of their entire family. Ash wished to guide his sisters, not control their every thought.

Lucy bit her lower lip before drawing her shoulders back. "I'm not so far from five and twenty, you know. I should like some semblance of my own life."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Have you heard nothing I've said? Living alone is admitting defeat." He drew a breath and willed himself to calm, for he truly wanted her to understand. "And I assure you, I will never cease watching out for you, no matter where you live. Especially so long as you are unmarried."

Color came into her cheeks. "You're deluded if you believe I'll ever receive a proper offer. The only man who wants a spinster for a wife is a hundred years old or else looking to salvage his hide from scandal!"

Ash sputtered. "Deluded? Because I want the best for you?"

"Because you refuse to see the truth!" She arched her back to look up at him. "I mean to open a boarding school. I will be headmistress, and you cannot stop me."

A giant fist socked him in his gut. She wanted to leave him. She _planned_ for it.

But she seemed oblivious to the hurt her words caused him. Determination, and something else--something he hadn't really seen in her before--lit her eyes. Anticipation.

"Not in Devon, of course. Somewhere else. I would like to use my dowry as seed money. As my guardian, you're obliged to bequeath it to me once I reach that certain age after which marriage becomes," she tilted her head, "quite impossible."

"You're impossible," he said under his breath.

"I heard that." She smiled sweetly at him, feigning innocence in a pale yellow morning gown.

He indicated her youthful reflection in the mirror behind him. "You're not old. Four and twenty. Plenty of women marry after twenty. If you'd just go to London--"

Her small shoulders set. "Women my age don't go husband-hunting, Trestin. I'm positively ancient. Firmly on the shelf. How else can I say it?" She regarded him steadily. "It's time to plan for my future."

His baby sister. A certified bluestocking. She couldn't be.

If she _was_ ancient, if he was deluding himself as she claimed, then it was still his fault. Mourning had held her back from her first Season, and he didn't berate himself for that. But when the impact of their father's overindulgent lifestyle had made itself known, and Ash hadn't been able to afford the expense of a wardrobe or dowry, he'd been glad when she'd requested to delay her Season again. Only assiduous planning over the course of years had freed him from their father's obligations and allowed modest dowries to be saved.

Seven years had passed. No wonder marriage seemed impossible to her.

"Surely we can talk about this," he said, growing desperate. How could he make her future right?

Black ringlets danced as she shook her head, her brown eyes sad. "Men have never sought introductions to me, even here in the country. I know how badly you want me to go to London, and I will go. Because if I don't, I fear you won't, and I know how much you want to take a wife. But I won't be made a fool. I have no marriage prospects. I wish you would accept that." She regarded him squarely. "I have."

"This isn't over," he warned, but he needed time to find a solution, preferably one that ended with her bright and happy and bouncing a baby. Her baby.

"Lord Montborne was seen in Brixcombe yesterday," she declared abruptly. When Ash blinked, attempting to connect this information to their conversation, she explained, "I do hope we won't go to London while he is in the country. How dreadfully dull that would be."

Ash pressed his fingers to his temple. "Do you have any additional, illogical statements to make?"

Her face, which had been serene despite their arguing, closed. "None that would interest you, evidently. Good day." She dipped a shallow curtsey and left the room, her stiff back evidence that he'd crossed a line only she could see.

Ash looked at his manservant. What he wouldn't give to have Montborne here now, for the marquis understood women far better than Ash ever could. But Evans was his only company, and the lad knew better than to so much as roll his eyes.

Instead, the valet 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 all 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 a distraction, to be savored and then put aside. Committing to one would take all the fun out of it.

And he hardly needed companionship. Wealthy widows were his partiality, for in addition to being a rake, he was so light in the pockets, he could float away. He depended upon generous benefactresses for his support. 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 and Lucy's unexpected show of interest, Ash didn't worry about Montborne's arrival in Brixcombe. They'd grown up together. Too, 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.

No, after seven years of struggling to find someone suitable for his sister, Ash knew London was Lucy's best chance for a husband. In Town, she was bound to meet at least one hopeful worthy of her hand.

In the meantime, there was _a_ neighbor Ash did concern himself with. He must keep Lucy away from Miss Smythe.

As he cut through his rhododendrons, 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 current 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 was never so careless. What was it about her that drew them into foolishness, all of them?

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. A flickering memory of the flame-haired siren seated primly in his drawing room was all it took to remind him just how desirable she was.

Listen to him! There was nothing appealing about a woman with too much cheek. 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 with whom to contend.

A man must consider the entire package when choosing a wife. Not that he was considering Miss Smythe, 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 her zealousness 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 in her head. Where would it end?

**Chapter 7**

****

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_ feel 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, was that love? 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. Nothing more.

Gradually, the 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. No doubt, she'd never expected to hear herself sound sanctimonious.

Elizabeth patted her hand. "We will be much better off if he puts you out of his mind, Celeste. 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're capable of feeling. Even the best of us are. This will put an end to his infatuation, mark my words. Men love to chase, not be chased."

"In the scheme of things, this doesn't seem so forward," Celeste observed drolly.

"Nonsense. In his mind, women ought to be docile creatures, not forcing hands. 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 turned her nose up. "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. Her reckless pursuit of a married man was all the more reason Celeste had hauled her to Devon.

"The two of you shall suffer each other's company of 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 as anything but attractive, 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 formed a moue of distaste. "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 STOPPED 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 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 around and skipped off before he could form a retort.

Primed by one meddling female, he arrived in his drawing room to receive two others. "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."

Miss Smythe's eyes drifted to the pink-tipped rose dangling from a thorny stem. "How do you know?"

"It was my cottage, Miss Smythe. Did you think I wouldn't know every inch of it?"

Her lips parted as though she wished to respond and then closed softly, as though she'd thought better of it. She shrugged and half-turned. "We'll put it back."

"No." He growled the syllable with his usual affability.

She looked over her shoulder. One eyebrow lifted in question. He had the distinct feeling she was toying with him. For some reason, it made his pulse beat faster.

"Actually, my lord," Mrs. Inglewood called from the couch, "we came to invite you for a walk."

An incredulous noise escaped him, a cross between a snort and a guffaw. His good manners had gone to the devil. He didn't really care. These confounded women were up to something today, he was sure of it. "Why in blazes would you do that?"

"An afternoon out-of-doors sounded entertaining." Miss Smythe set the flowerpot on a three-legged table and wiped her gloved fingers across her cheek. Dirt smeared in a thin trail. Not enough to cause havoc, just enough to make his fingers itch to trace its path. To clean it, mind. Not to brush against her satiny skin, or feel the flutter of her lashes against his knuckles. Because that was romantic rot.

"I don't have time for _entertainment,_ " he said, which was mostly true, "and you don't have a chaperone, which together means _we_ aren't going anywhere."

"What am I?" Mrs. Inglewood's ankle boots had vanished from her feet. She wiggled her stockinged toes, looking very relieved. There was something about the indolent way she draped herself across his couch despite her advanced condition that gave him the impression of a woman far too at ease in her own skin.

Lucy's voice called over his shoulder, preventing him from responding to Mrs. Inglewood. "I think it sounds like a delightful way to spend the afternoon. Exercise is all the rage, you know. We shall certainly go. To the cliffs, at least. It's a very good lookout and only a bit taxing."

He stepped toward the fireplace so he could see all three women at the same time. "You never want me to accompany you on your walks," he said to his sister. He didn't mean to sound accusing, but there it was.

She peered at him oddly. "You've never asked to come."

"That's not true--" Maybe it was. He couldn't recall ever thinking of it. "Very well."

As for Mrs. Inglewood... He eyed her swollen feet propped on the ottoman. "I think Mrs. Inglewood would be far more comfortable here." Seeing her lips part in protest, he amended, " _I_ would be more comfortable if I didn't have to worry about you tumbling down the cliffs."

Lucy's hoot of laughter pealed in his ears. "Trestin! It's not enough for you to fret over Delilah and me? You must concern yourself with our neighbors, too?"

He was hardly entertained by her lack of appreciation for his efforts. "It's a man's duty to watch out for the fairer sex, no matter their relation to him. I wish you wouldn't chide me for it."

Her expression turned mulish, as though she were about to start in on one of her lectures on female aptitudes. Using his eyes to beseech her, he soundlessly asked her to reconsider embarrassing him in front of their neighbors.

Her lips pressed together and her gaze darted to their guests. Her argument seemed to die on her lips.

He turned to see what had caught her attention so. He, too, paused. An odd sort of gratitude had frozen Mrs. Inglewood and Miss Smythe in place, making him feel at least ten feet tall. Miss Smythe, especially, regarded him with widened eyes and a breathless anticipation that sent a fluttery feeling straight through his belly.

He should not grow _used_ to it.

"I do appreciate your concern, my lord," Mrs. Inglewood said in a much softened voice. "Occasionally I forget how dangerous the world can be for a woman."

She couldn't have been more than eight and twenty, only a little older than Lucy, though she usually held herself with a worldliness he found disconcerting. Right now she looked vulnerable. Her slipped poise gave him a moment to wonder how she'd come to be in her predicament. What selfish brute refused to marry the woman he'd ruined?

_Why_ was he so convinced there was no Captain Inglewood?

Ash suddenly wanted this farce of an outing behind him. He was growing dangerously close to feeling responsible for two women he was sure were lying to him, and one that made him feel...

Well, _that_ thought wasn't worth pursuing. "Nordstrom," he said, knowing the butler would be stationed around the corner, "send for Miss Delilah."

Her pretty oval face popped into the doorway just above Lucy's shoulder, as if she'd been standing beside Nordstrom the entire time. An over-decorated poke bonnet had already been tied on under her chin.

Ash shook his head. Plagued.

**Chapter 8**

****

IT HAD SEEMED so simple when Mrs. Inglewood had suggested it. A walk, properly chaperoned by his sisters, with Mrs. Inglewood tucked away at Worston beside a tea tray. But the women must be plotting in confidence, for his sisters had looped arms and raced ahead, leaving him to escort Miss Smythe alone.

A hundred or perhaps a thousand conflicting thoughts sped through his mind as she laced her delicate arm through his and regarded him expectantly. They were all necessary thoughts, thoughts he should think about. Later. When he didn't have an enchanting young woman hanging on his every word or an unfamiliar, blossoming anticipation in his chest.

But that was drivel. Just because her eyes reminded him of new apples and her skin flushed creamy peach didn't mean he _felt_ anything. It just meant she was damnably good at looking pretty. There were other things she was damnably good at, like getting him into these prickly situations.

Best to get it over with. "Shall we?"

Those luscious lips quirked. "It _was_ my intention."

Much better. His thoughts un-addled when she reminded him why they'd never get on. He set off toward the watery inlet the area was named for. The bay was a spectacular sight on a clear day like this. It would be visible just on the other side of the ring of trees beyond, the ones that needed a good clearing.

Its best feature, however, was proximity. They could be there and back within the hour, and he could get on with the business of being a viscount.

Miss Smythe was no simpering miss. She tramped beside him without complaint. He slowed anyway. An hour wasn't _that_ much time away from his duties.

Wind swept unimpeded over desolate terrain and loosened her fiery curls from their simple knot beneath her bonnet. "You needn't worry about me," she said when she caught him looking at her. She clutched at the becoming straw hat she'd donned, lest she lose the thing entirely, and regarded him from above the wide, full lips he'd learned were quick to smile. Was he really meant to resist eyes as green as heather shrubs?

"I realized I wasn't taking the time to enjoy this properly, is all," he said, surprising himself with his honesty. "It's not every day one is accosted by a woman who demands to be entertained."

Her silky chuckle drew along his skin. "I suppose I should be disenchanted by what amounts to a lot of broken rocks, but I find it rather pretty."

Sharp granite outcroppings poked up from the heather like dry bones. He'd always thought the landscape resembled a graveyard. For years he'd fought the desolation, surrounding Worston with lush gardens planted by his own hands. But he loved the moors even if they needed a human touch, and took pride in the indomitable will it took to defeat them.

Over the next rise was the bay. It would leave her breathless if her reaction to the barren heaths was any indication.

"Do you swim?" he asked, thinking of the beach.

She looked sidelong at him. "Yes."

"You've been to Bath, then?" He didn't know why he asked. _He 'd _been to Bath, when he was younger. But he didn't really care if she had. He didn't even like to travel.

She looked sideways at him again, reminding him of Mrs. Inglewood's earlier, knowing look. "The swimming I had in mind was more of the country variety. Much less...organized."

An image of her free limbs unencumbered by a proper Bath costume swam through his mind. It was several seconds before she glanced askance at him again. "Do _you_ swim, my lord?"

"No." But when she looked at him like he'd just announced he despised puppies, he almost wished he did. "Not in a long while," he amended, still working to get her pale, wet extremities out of his head. "It seems a pointless activity."

The last few feet of heather climbed up a high grade. Waves breaking on the other side drowned the sound of meadowlarks behind them. He held her arm tightly against his side. At the summit he continued to grip her as though he might lose her over the precipice, which in fact was a very real threat. But she did not, as his sisters might, pull away.

His estimation of her rose. She was rather sensible. If there was one thing his life was lacking, it was sensible females.

At the peak of the climb, the bay spread before them. To their right, jagged cliffs dropped straight into the sea. She gasped, taking in the panoramic scene with unbridled awe.

A strong, salty breeze tore her hair from the remainders of its knot. Curls fanned from beneath her bonnet and spilled down her back. She brushed an errant strand away and squinted into the sun.

Her breasts heaved against the neckline of her gown, perhaps from exercise or excitement or both. She stared at the impressive cliff faces curving toward Plymouth. He stared at her. He'd seen this scene a thousand times, but never like this. Never with her.

His hand rose slowly, as though entranced. He caught himself just before he wiped the dirt smudge marring her skin. What was he doing? Aside from the fact that his thoughts were entirely improper, aside from the fact that his sisters had slipped out of sight, he couldn't touch her perfect face with his dirty glove. That would be entirely beyond the pale.

Mercifully, she seemed not to have noticed his near slip. "How do we get to the beach?"

He pointed to a steep trail winding down the cliffs to their right. "From Worston, it's about two miles. From here, three or four."

"Oh."

Her obvious disappointment had him wishing he could spare the time to take her to the beach. Alas, his estate manager expected him promptly at three of the clock. But there were other days, perhaps even tomorrow.

"Are you truly going to stay in Brixcombe?" he asked, for the first time hoping for, more than fearing, an affirmative answer.

She didn't take her eyes from the beach. A boy and his mutt were playing in the waves. If the look on her face was any indication, she wished she were with them. "Yes."

If he required any more blatant a warning than the happiness he felt at that single word, just look what she'd done to him. In a few minutes of light rambling, she had him reconsidering his stringent opinion of her. His burgeoning interest should be more than enough to have him running for the safe solitude of Worston Heights.

He must be losing his edge if the old Amherst cottage was beginning to seem the perfect place for two women who had no place in Polite Society.

His _edge_? Try his _mind_. He did his best to keep his eyes averted, when they seemed to want only to stray to the woman beside him. It was futile. It took one more breath for him to begin crafting excuses for his attraction to her. _There existed a man somewhere who had done Mrs. Inglewood a terrible wrong. Miss Smythe had stood dutifully by her friend, likely going so far as to arrange their flight to the country. The least he could do was see they weren 't abandoned altogether._

Or he could accept that there was no good reason for him to say, "My sister is hosting an intimate dinner party tonight, if you and Mrs. Inglewood are not otherwise engaged."

"Is she?" Miss Smythe replied. A question, not a commitment.

He tried not to feel rejected over an idea he knew was terrible. But he was horrible at that.

"My good friend Lord Montborne is in the area," he expounded, stupidly determined to have her accept his invitation. "Lucy wishes to welcome him back."

Miss Smythe almost imperceptibly stiffened. _Why?_ But she afforded him no hint that he could discern. "I see," she said slowly.

"There will be a few families from the neighborhood." He paused when her eyes shifted as if this piece of information interested her. Lest she mistake his description for a true rout and be disappointed by his little dinner party, he added, "Nothing extravagant. Lord Montborne is full of himself enough as it is; I wouldn't want his head to swell so much he couldn't depart the dining room."

She laughed, but he was intensely aware she had yet to accept. "You must be well-acquainted with the marquis."

Jealousy, hot and surprising, spiked through his chest. "Are you?"

She forced her attention to Ash from the shore. "The marquis is very fond of London."

Her coy responses irked him. He tried for one of his own. "And ladies."

She smiled wryly, causing his stomach to trip. "So it's said."

"Then you'll come?" It maddened him to think she would come for Montborne and not for him. Still, he wanted her to come. The party would seem dull without her. If it meant putting her in Montborne's path, he would risk it.

"I'll have to ask Elizabeth." Her lower lip caught in her teeth. "What of your sisters? I thought you would have us steer clear of them."

"I never said that."

She laughed in that low, seductive way of hers. "You don't need to."

He supposed he had __ made his feelings clear, even if he hadn't specifically lined them out. "I merely ask you not to encourage their hoyden ways."

She was quiet for a time. "Very well. What of the cottage? It has been three days, yet I've seen no one on the property. Do you still mean to send your estate manager as a show of good faith?"

Oh, she was a persistent little minx. His opinion of her rose. But he wanted the truth, and he knew only one way to have it out of her. "I'll send someone as soon as Captain Inglewood requests it. My good faith, as you describe it, is only reserved for the person who signed the bill of sale."

When she looked up again, her lips were turned up and one slender eyebrow was raised. "I'll be sure to pass that along."

**Chapter 9**

****

CELESTE COULD HAVE done with something stronger than sherry as she ticked off the minutes until Roman deigned to make his entrance. Miss Lancester's dinner party had, to this point, proved a resounding bore. The entertainment clearly hinged on their guest of honor's arrival, which to Celeste's calculations, was at least a quarter hour away.

An enormously long quarter hour, as the tedium did nothing to distract her from obsessing over what might or might not happen in the next few hours. What would Roman do--or, God forbid, say--when he found her here?

She ought to have sent him a warning instead of relying on surprise, but how did a woman contact a man in the country without drawing attention?

Lord Trestin brooded before the fireplace. The occasional unreadable glance at her warmed her from her slippers to the nape of her neck. She should have been disappointed to realize calling on him today had done nothing to quell his interest in her, contrary to Elizabeth's advice. Instead she felt a bit...fluttery.

"And how do you find our little town, hm?"

She cupped her sherry glass in her hands and forced her attention to the man seated beside her. As Lord Trestin had warned, the dinner party was a close affair. Miss Lancester's guests were lower gentry, still far higher on the social ladder than herself, but not so high as to possess the amusing eccentricities of the Upper Ten Thousand.

The married couple attending, Mr. and Mrs. Pratt, had found something marvelously diverting to whisper about with Miss Lancester and Miss Delilah. Mr. Mudwilder, a bachelor, had chosen to settle his large frame on the cushion beside Celeste. The cloying scent of his shaving powder almost distracted from his tedious description of his new prize bull.

It seemed he was done with his one-sided discussion of cattle.

"I find I have a fondness for the seclusion of Brixcombe," she said, wishing Elizabeth hadn't taken Lord Trestin's reprimand to heart. She could have used her friend's magnetic pull on men just now. Mr. Mudwilder was sweet, but she would rather not spend the evening deflecting his attempts at discourse.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, would have played to him. He'd have gone home alone, but feeling very good for his effort.

"I've always enjoyed solitude, myself," he said, shifting his bulk against the cushions, "so long as I can look forward to pretty company in the evening."

She quickly took a sip of sherry. Goodness. What did she say to that besides thank you?

"My apologies," he blurted before she could say anything. He took a draught of wine. When he looked at her again he appeared sincerely penitent. "I meant no offense. You're very pretty. A man can't help but want to compliment you, even if he hasn't a chance in ten of drawing your attention."

She could only seem to look at her hands and the crystal glass she cupped between them. Oh, no. Was she blushing? It was one thing to play coy, but this was no patron looking for an evening between the sheets. She hardly knew what to make of his attention.

If only Elizabeth were here! But she'd firmly declined. "I suppose I _ought_ to give more consideration to my condition," she'd said, patting the top of her belly. "You've said so enough yourself. Go along now to Lord Trestin's dinner, and make friends with him. I shall sit here and keep my fingers crossed for you."

So Celeste was to contend with Mr. Mudwilder's solicitous attention alone. And evade Lord Trestin's smoldering looks, and pray Roman's reaction to her presence was discreet.

Elizabeth had voiced an opinion on that, too. "For all that you refuse to acknowledge it, I do believe the marquis is half in love with you. I'm sure he will keep your confidence, as you asked."

Celeste wasn't as convinced. She drew taut when Miss Lancester set down her lemonade and fixed her attention on the door. "At last, Lord Montborne arrives." If a hint of cynicism bespoke her annoyance, the others didn't seem to notice.

Miss Delilah leaned toward Mrs. Pratt, a fearsome-looking woman in a somber, high-necked dress. "Lucinda positively _breathes_ Lord Montborne."

Lord Trestin gave no indication he had overheard the stage whisper. An irregular spot in the papered wall had his attention.

"No need to exert yourself, Nordstrom, old boy," a familiar, jovial voice boomed down the hallway. "They're no doubt expecting me by now. I'm excruciatingly tardy, you see." In a great burst of energy, Roman swept into the room. "Ladies! Mr. Mudwilder, my dear Mrs. Pratt." He indicated the assembly with a flourish of his walking stick. " _Mr._ Pratt, and, of course, our esteemed host and my friend, Lord Trestin. So much for dinner tonight, I suppose. Have I at least come in time for dessert?"

The fearsome Mrs. Pratt tittered into her glove. "Of course we waited for you, my lord."

"'Of course?'" He looked about the room. Celeste willed herself to remain calm. Yet when his gaze touched on her with surprise, the amber liquid in her glass quivered.

"There is no 'of course,'" he continued in amiable tones. "I should never wish to keep ladies from their dinner."

Miss Lancester sniffed. "Then you ought to have arrived at half five, like everyone else. I wouldn't have waited but for my brother, who wished for even numbers at his table."

Lord Trestin's brow furrowed at this blatant falsehood, but he didn't disagree.

"Even numbers?" Roman looked about at each of the assembled guests. He saved Celeste for last. She could almost see the connections as he made them in his head. She recognized the near-imperceptible tightening at the corners of his eyes.

Her heart tripped as she awaited his reaction. What was he thinking about so seriously?

"Mr. and Mrs. Pratt. Mr. Mudwilder and Miss Delilah." Though he favored his right arm, which was no doubt still sore from his tumble, he tapped his walking stick against his fingers, counting pairs. "Myself and our lovely hostess." He paused to allow the girls to snicker at his matchmaking, but Celeste didn't laugh. She raised her sherry to her lips as though she could place the feeble barrier between herself and Roman's suspicions.

His eyes further narrowed on her. "And Miss Gray and our Lord Trestin, I presume."

Celeste calmly broke in. "Smythe, my lord. Miss Smythe."

Slowly, he nodded. "Ah, yes. How rude of me to forget your name, after we spoke at such length before your holiday." He brightened suddenly. A chill stole through her despite the cozy fire in the grate. "But of course, I recall it clearly now. Did I not mention Devon as a lovely place to spend the summer? And then _you_ asked me about the local gentry, to which I replied..." He frowned. "What was it I said, do you recollect?"

Celeste risked a glimpse at Lord Trestin. He watched their exchange with unreserved interest. As did everyone in the room, including Mr. Mudwilder beside her. "If memory serves, my lord," she answered, "you recommended the Lancester family highly, as a pinnacle of all that is good in the world."

Roman chuckled and lowered his walking stick, clasping the gold knob with both hands. His gaze did not falter from hers. "Yes, I am absolutely sure that is what I said, for there is no _sinner_ nor prevaricator among them. And I, down from London so infrequently, find them a refreshing breath of fresh air. Please, my dear family," he said, expanding his hands to include the three siblings, "never change. Never let vice rule you, or desire lure you. For these are but fleeting pleasures. Guilt, my friends, is forever."

Mrs. Pratt clapped her hands together. "Well said, my lord. I pray you have seen your last scandal and are reborn a new man?"

Roman slowly unlocked eyes with Celeste and dragged his scrutiny to the prim woman beside Miss Delilah. "Nay, Mrs. Pratt. I fear for some of us, there is no second chance."

ROMAN FOUND HER later, when the others were sated from dinner and nodding into their port. He and Celeste twisted like corkscrews into a shadowy corner of Lord Trestin's drawing room.

Numerous seating arrangements allowed sufficient privacy to steal away entirely. She was wary of doing so. The last thing she wanted was to call any more attention to her relationship with Roman.

"How dare you?" she hissed, glancing sideways to be sure they weren't overheard.

"How dare _you_? What are you thinking, Celeste? Or _are_ you? God's teeth, this is a mad scheme. I'm shocked. Lord Trestin is practically a saint."

"I haven't set my sights on him! You came up with that all on your own."

His eyes were shards of jagged crystal, accusing and hurt. "No, you didn't tell me anything, did you? I fairly begged you to enlighten me and you refused. No, actually--you _lied_ to me out in that field. You said you aren't practicing your charms. Who is to blame, if you do not like the way I've interpreted things?"

"You must trust me on this, my lord--" But she knew. He was right.

"Don't 'my lord' me tonight. You left me completely in the dark and now have the audacity to be angry with me for assuming--" His gaze fell to the carpet then traveled back to her face. "I'd wager the last coin in my pocket that I am not misinterpreting the way you look at him. Am I, Celeste? Am I wrong?"

Her indrawn breath hissed through her teeth. "You wouldn't understand."

"You might try me."

"I just wanted--" She couldn't say it. Saying it aloud would make her sound pathetic. Wasn't her fame, her success, enough? Must she also feel adored?

"It's what _you_ want, isn't it? Not what's good for him. Not what an entanglement with a lightskirt might do to his sisters."

"I've no designs on him," she said again. Even to her ears, she sounded unconvincing.

Roman exhaled slowly. His right hand briefly touched hers and then dropped to his side. "I can understand why you might be drawn. He is the finest man I know. But my dear, I'm asking you, as your friend and his, don't look in that direction. It won't do."

She glanced away.

Roman grasped her wrist. "Celeste, do not do this."

Tears threatened to break. "What is so horrible about my fancying him?"

She wanted to yank her arm away, but something about Roman's touch comforted her. Her heart ached as she looked him. If only someone would hold her...

Roman's thumb grazed over her wrist. "He's not the type...not the type to dally with your type. It's simply who he is. He's driven to prove that he's better than his father. You do remember his father?"

She nodded, tugging her hand away. Being touched, but not deeply enough, left her empty.

"Then you understand why he'll hate you if you take that from him." Roman's eyes snapped with warning. "He'll never forgive you."

_I do not take lies lightly._ She heard the threat ring, over and over, as Roman waited for her to respond.

It was petulant, but she couldn't help it. "I hoped you would want me to be happy."

He stepped toward her, crowding her into the corner. "I do. I love you. Good Lord, I have loved you since the moment I saw you on the steps of Drury Lane, making eyes at the Duc de Salvoy while you were on the Prince's arm."

Her heart crashed to a halt. No one had ever said he loved her and meant it.

His eyes searched her face. "But that's because you and I are of a kind. Not quite worthy of the rest of the world. A dalliance with Trestin, on the other hand, can only cause pain. Yours and his. You must end this before it becomes anything more." His eyes steeled, but they couldn't cut her as deeply as his words just had.

_She wasn 't worthy._

She barely heard his next pronouncement over the pounding in her head, so loud were her thoughts and so quietly did he utter his threat. "You must end it. Or I will."

**Chapter 10**

__

ASH TRIED NOT to stare at the pull of fabric around the shadowy curve of Miss Smythe's breasts. In the after-dinner glow of his sister's sumptuous meal, his eyes felt heavy, his body near-sated. He could easily imagine stealing Miss Smythe upstairs for a few bites of dessert. Mostly bites of her, but if it helped, he could have a tray of strawberries sent up, perhaps some wine--

He caught himself before he threw everything he'd worked for into the rubbish pile.

But it was too late. He wanted to pummel all of his guests, Montborne included, for lusting after her. If Ash knew a thing or two about women's clothing--and unfortunately he did, though not for any interesting reasons--Miss Smythe had a wispy fichu tucked into the deepest decolletage ever to show itself in Brixcombe.

He should send for a shawl, to cover her. Otherwise, he could anticipate having two impressionable females begging him for the latest London fashion. Then it would be _his_ tender sensibilities in question, because the thought of either of his sisters in such a gown was enough to make him forget how damnably attractive Miss Smythe looked with her tiny waist cinched above her hips.

Hips that made a man's hands want to hold on for the ride.

Good _God_.

He spun on his heel to ring for a blasted shawl.

"Good party, Trestin," Montborne boomed behind him. Ash pivoted once again then froze. _She_ was standing beside the marquis. In the gown. The one he wanted to peel off of her. The most irritating part was, aside from the plunging decolletage, she was everything that was fresh and clean--if one ignored the mud stain along her hem, the tendrils of red hair curling from her chignon and the frown tugging her lips.

In other words, there was nothing wholesome about Miss Smythe, except what he wished to believe.

"I will pass your appreciation to my sister," Ash said.

"Please do," Montborne replied in a light tone. "I'm thoroughly enjoying myself. Are you, Miss Smythe?" His gloved fingers barely grazed Miss Smythe's bare elbow. His expression turned longing, as though the slight touch was not enough.

Ash could understand. A little too well. But he didn't expect to feel jealous.

She tugged her elbow to her side and covered the spot with her hand. "It is a delightful party, my lord."

Montborne's jaw clenched as he looked down at her. Frustration flared so briefly, Ash might have imagined it. Only then did he realize the two hadn't come upon him together. She and the marquis must have approached him at the same time from opposite sides of the room.

"Have you seen the Chinese lanterns in the garden?" Ash asked her at the same time Montborne said, "And how _is_ your holiday progressing, Miss Smythe?"

Defiance flickered in her eyes as she addressed the marquis. "I quite like it in Brixcombe. In fact, I am overseeing the restoration of a cottage that served as the vicarage at one time. Perhaps you remember it?"

Ash would have said it was impossible for Montborne to falter. Yet for a split second the marquis deflated as though he'd been mortally wounded.

Piqued by his friend's odd behavior, Ash was nevertheless surprised when Montborne turned to him and said accusingly, "You sold her the Amherst property?"

If that wasn't indication of a past, nothing was. "I sold Captain _Inglewood_ the Amherst property," Ash replied, just to test Montborne's reaction to that little tale. "Miss Smythe is his wife's companion." _Allegedly._

Montborne's head swiveled to regard Miss Smythe. Ash couldn't see his eyes, but he could see hers. She was asking Montborne to trust her. _Please._

Ash could survive Miss Smythe's duplicity. He might be a bit enamored of her, but she was a stranger to him. But Montborne? They were old friends. They had never kept secrets from each other, none that Ash knew about.

He deserved the truth. Or at least, Montborne's half of the truth.

Yet when Montborne returned his attention to Ash, he simply nodded and tapped his finger against his chin. "Captain Inglewood, yes. Capital chap. Almost a legend, you might say."

It was Miss Smythe's turn to touch Montborne's elbow. _Thank you,_ she seemed to say.

A sick feeling took root in Ash's stomach. Montborne knew women. Montborne liked women. Miss Smythe could easily pass for one of the young things he had been accused of seducing. It would explain her bitterness, and Montborne's rickety attempt to lie for her.

Ash's fist clenched. Never mind Mrs. Inglewood was the obvious woman who had been seduced. Something was suspicious about Miss Smythe--he'd thought so from the start. This must be it. She and Montborne shared a past.

They clearly shared _something._

"Excuse me. Miss Lancester is calling me," Miss Smythe said. Abruptly, she left.

Lucy _was_ calling her, much to his chagrin. But Ash wasn't fooled.

"You seem rather familiar with Miss Smythe," he said to Montborne once she was out of earshot.

Montborne avoided his gaze. Or he simply couldn't pull his eyes away from Miss Smythe's swaying, retreating form. "She has the attention of every man in the room."

"Including yours."

Montborne pivoted toward him, making the conversation more private. "And yours."

Ash took a step toward the marquis and lowered his voice. "Just how well do you know her?"

Wordlessly they advanced to the side of the room, seemingly of the same mind to keep the conversation between them.

Montborne's voice lowered. "No better than any single man ought to know an unmarried young woman."

"Don't lie to me, Montborne."

"Why do you care? What business is it of yours if I've..." Montborne trailed off, jaw muscle twitching.

Ash's head pounded. __ Had he been right? _If Montborne had_ _touched her --_Ash stepped closer. "Finish your sentence," he said in a menacing tone.

Montborne's blue eyes flicked across the assembly. He stared blankly for a tense moment before turning back to Ash. "She's just a woman I know in London who happens to be taking a holiday in the country. Can we please leave it at that?"

Ash changed tack. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

Montborne recoiled. "I've done nothing wrong."

"You wouldn't have come to Devon if you weren't in trouble again. I can't help you if you won't tell me what you've been accused of doing."

Montborne's eyes snapped. "I'm not one of your sisters. I can handle myself."

But Montborne hadn't been able to--yet. Because in fact, Montborne _didn 't_ come to the country unless he required Ash's assistance. His continual, unquestioned support was all Ash had to lord over the marquis.

"Does she deserve to be caught up in whatever you've done?" Ash asked, his stomach churning as he dreaded the answer. It was the first time he could remember worrying more about the girl Montborne might have seduced than his friend's social standing.

Montborne belted out a hollow laugh and looked down his long, straight nose at Ash. "I'll thank you to mind your own business. But for the record, I did not invite Celeste into my problems."

"'Celeste,' is it?" Ash leapt on the faux pas. "Precisely what kind of unmarried young woman is she?"

Ash turned away before his guests witnessed his fury. He'd always put his family first. Montborne was part of that family; a tall, blond brother to them all. But _this_ --for Montborne to have misused _her_ --was beyond anything Ash could countenance.

Montborne's voice lowered. "The kind men like you don't touch. You're far too interested in her. Keep your distance, Ashlin."

But Ash couldn't let it go. After all the times he'd extricated Montborne from a quandary, he felt responsible. "Did you ruin her? Is that what this secret is about?"

Montborne looked at him queerly. All trace of resentment was gone. "You ponce. I haven't ruined anyone. You of all people should know that."

Ash ignored the tiny part of him whispering that maybe he should believe his friend. But he was too jealous to be rational and too indignant to let it go. He was sure Montborne was concealing something. "I've seen the way you look at her. Everyone knows you fall in love with anything in a shift. How could you resist _her_?"

Montborne looked offended and a tad hurt. He opened his mouth, then closed it. "What I _feel_ for her is irrelevant. Listen to me. _She 's not good enough._ I only say this because I care about you."

It took every ounce of Ash's willpower not to send his fist flying into Montborne's face. "She's good enough to bed but not good enough to marry?" He took one step closer, until he could smell the marquis' lemon soap. "Stay away from her."

Montborne's eyes steeled. "You've got this all wrong. I'm only trying to protect you."

"You _lie_ for her!"

Belatedly, Ash looked around the room. His guests were gathered around the pianoforte, oblivious to the argument heating the corner. He'd been too absorbed to hear the strains of music drifting through the room.

He turned back in time to see Montborne's pang of regret. "I am. And I will do it again. See here, Ashlin. I swear I don't know her in the carnal sense. But I do know how easily a man can fall for her. It's as easy as breathing. She might be beneath you, but she has all of London at her feet."

Ash slammed his hand against the wall behind Montborne's head. He no longer cared how big of a scene they caused. "Lying to me isn't _helping_ me."

Montborne released his breath slowly. Then he patted Ash's shoulder and eased himself from his pinned position against the wall. "You want the truth? A man like you only pursues a woman like her for one reason. I tried to warn you. When this all blows up in your face, at least remember that I tried."

Ash's best--and, really, only--friend turned on his heel and stormed toward the door. Ash watched him go.

Montborne's warning rang in his ears, drowning out everything else. The chink of teacups against saucers, the chime of his sisters' laughter, the nasal drone of Mrs. Pratt's monologue over the plink of pianoforte keys.

_Everyone in London lusted after Miss Smythe._

He wasn't the only one.

****

CELESTE FOLLOWED LORD Trestin as he ducked through the open terrace doors. She kept to the shadows. A respectable woman didn't follow a man into the garden.

A respectable woman didn't follow a man at all.

She doubted he was aware of her behind him. He was angry. She hurried to keep up with him. What had Lord Montborne told him?

She shouldn't care. Not about whatever Montborne had said or how Lord Trestin had responded. In fact, she should be taking herself as far away from both men as she could. And she had--for a moment. She'd left them because the man who was supposed to be her friend was treating her with disdain and the one she longed for was looking at her with suspicion. But after witnessing the men nearly come to blows, she regretted leaving them alone. Roman could tell anyone else she was a high flyer and it wouldn't matter. Lord Trestin knowing seemed the worst thing that could happen to her.

He would never look at her with adoration again.

He stopped just past the fountain. A string of lanterns washed the shimmering pool in color. He propped his foot against the limestone wall and rested a hand on his knee. The lanterns bathed him, throwing shadows across the planes of his face and light onto his cravat.

It wasn't long before he noticed her approach.

A tempest of desire swirled in his expression. Her chest tightened. _He saw her._ Not as an irritating intrusion on his carefully ordered world, but as a person. As a woman.

"My lord," she began, but he cut her off.

He was a storm of emotions. A gale that blew through her and left chills along her arms. In two steps, his lips swept over hers, capturing, claiming. With a shaky breath, he thrust his long fingers into her hair. Her simple chignon disintegrated under his touch--along with her promises to herself.

An experienced woman recognized when a man desired her. But there was more to his assault. Denial. She felt it in the kiss, in the way his hands tangled in her hair and pulled her lips closer. He sucked the air from her lungs as though he could inhale her and keep her with him forever.

But he couldn't. She shouldn't be here, and no matter how much she wanted this, she should never have followed him. She pushed against his chest. Her protest was futile. A low moan vibrated in the back of his throat and she gave in to its plea. She needed him, too.

Desire wrapped around her, secluding her from reason. She relaxed into the kiss, letting his pleasure, his desperation, his hunger thrum through her like the taut string of a violin. This was Lord Trestin, whom she could never have, and it was wrong. But it felt oh so very, very right.

A shadow moved, or maybe the hitch of a shocked breath sounded. She and Lord Trestin jumped apart like a dairy maiden and her first boy. Their heads swiveled to the intruder.

Roman's blue beam of disapproval could be felt across the darkened yard. Celeste sucked in a breath at the vehemence pouring from him.

In that moment, she could believe he hated her.

For one split second, she hated him, too. She was a courtesan. She had recently been _the_ premier courtesan in London. She had spent a lifetime cultivating her image, defining it and detailing it like a beloved painting. Roman knew that better than anyone. They were soul mates of a sort, both etching a living from the darkest essence of their person. But the way he looked at her now left her feeling filthy, cold, angry and...frightened.

_You and I are of a kind. Not quite worthy of the rest of the world._ Not worthy of love, or, it would seem, devotion. For Roman had betrayed her more than anyone else in her thirty-three years. That was what made her heart turn in on itself and form into a tight little rock--the knowledge that if Roman thought her so contemptible, what chance did she have to earn the respect of a man like Lord Trestin?

She lifted her hem an inch. Not the deep curtsey one usually afforded a marquis, but a shallow acknowledgment of his position over hers. A nod to his ability to be fickle, to dance with the devil if he so chose, and to hell with anyone else. But he was a man, and a lord. He could do as he chose.

A woman must live with the consequences.

She sauntered toward him, daring him to shout that she was a loose woman and her behavior here only proved it. But Roman kept silent. He didn't even look at her as she passed him, training his censure on Lord Trestin instead.

Her heart thudded as she left them in the garden. She tingled everywhere from the effects of Lord Trestin's kiss. Her thoughts were a jumble of emotion, for she couldn't quite regret the encounter, yet she was more disappointed in herself than she'd ever been. For Roman had one thing right: she'd pursued Lord Trestin, as though a deficiency within her made her seek out men. A flaw inherited from her mother, or a learned trait to seek comfort in the arms of a man when she felt alone.

She mustered up her last bit of courage and carried herself into the house. Neither man followed. Like dogs fighting over a food scrap, they remained postured to defend their right to it, neither paying any attention to her.

She was as extraneous as she had ever been.

**Chapter 11**

****

THAT NIGHT, ASH didn't sleep. He couldn't help but recall all the times Montborne had behaved terribly and he had loyally intervened. Why, he'd been pulling Montborne out of scrapes of the female variety ever since they were lads. The marquis certainly had no room to lecture _him_.

Over and over, the more recent occasions he'd saved Montborne came to his mind. Young ladies with questionable scruples who had accused Montborne of the worst offense: compromise. Ash had never allowed himself to wonder if the allegations were true. He'd believed his best friend. Until now. Was Montborne as much a rogue as his reputation alleged?

The thought of him using Miss Smythe without concern for her person haunted Ash as he tried to sleep that night. It was impossible to stop its endless loop. Rage, fury, confusion and hurt all vied for space inside his head. God, but was it true? He didn't want it to be. It _could_ be. The looks Montborne had cast her, a mix of fear and tenderness, spoke volumes. He'd confronted Ash. When had Montborne ever cared who Ash pursued?

Not that he had ever pursued a young woman--wasn't even admitting, specifically, that he was pursuing Miss Smythe. But Montborne had never once evidenced interest in Ash's female companions or lack thereof. And then there was that peculiar speech about guilt that Montborne had given upon seeing Miss Smythe. Was that what the marquis felt when he looked at her? Guilt?

As Ash lay in his bed, he warred with a question he'd never thought he'd need answered. Had Montborne ruined the one woman Ash had fallen for?

He needed to know before it drove him mad. And he was alarmingly close to madness. Kissing her was even better in truth than in his dreams. It fired his blood and awakened a beast he'd long thought tamed. A beast more berserk than he'd ever dreamed.

Everything about her luscious curves felt right in a way that was oh so wrong. He wanted to do it again and again, take even more. He was worse than Montborne, as bad as his father, because he wanted to take from her until she had nothing left to give. Until she was ruined for any other man.

_Never let vice rule you, or desire lure you. For these are but fleeting pleasures. Guilt, my friends, is forever._

Guilt kept Ash awake. Guilt, and fear that if he slept, he'd dream of her. He was already hard enough without the fantasy of her riding him.

If Montborne had seduced her, Ash could at least understand why he'd done it.

THE FIRST THING Celeste did when she arrived at the cottage the next morning was open the shutters. Lord Trestin had made it perfectly clear that he wouldn't perform any repairs so long as "Captain Inglewood" wasn't around to request them.

An admirable attempt to force her hand, but she would not be played. The baby was due any day now. Restoring the cottage so she and Elizabeth could get on to the business of preparing for the infant must be her first priority--remembering the events of the previous night her last.

Tangled up rosebushes and weeds encroached on the cottage's limestone exterior and made it difficult to reach the old wooden panels. Before long she had a good-sized tear in the flounce of her least-best gown. But she hardly noticed the damage. Groundskeepers organized from Brixcombe's citizens worked elsewhere around the property. Today was the day they began making this place habitable; there was no time for vanity.

Standing on tiptoe, she wrestled with the last rotted shutter. Perhaps prying at the boards was her way of distancing herself from her London identity. She'd never attempted anything as invigorating as home repairs; Gordo, her brawny manservant, made sure of it. Even her housekeeper Hildegard sheltered her from the simple task of dusting.

Celeste was surprised to discover she enjoyed rolling up her sleeves, and didn't mind a little dirt.

She shrieked as the shutter finally swung open, nearly toppling her into the thorny bushes. She mentally struck a task from her list, feeling very pleased. They must yet secure the shutters so they didn't swing in the wind, along with many other chores that would keep her occupied for several weeks, but she could savor her success with this. Sunlight!

She dusted her hands on her borrowed apron and looked up to see Lord Trestin's sisters headed toward the cottage. What on earth?

"Good morning, Miss Smythe!" Miss Lancester called out, swinging a smart, periwinkle-hued parasol in one hand. Her other arm was entwined with her sister's, whose dainty pink parasol shielded her fair complexion from the sun.

"Good morning," Celeste replied, extricating herself from the rosebushes to greet them. She brushed a few damp curls from her face, conscious that Lord Trestin's sisters resembled two diamonds of the first water and she looked like a rag doll.

Did he know they were about? She couldn't think he did.

Miss Delilah smiled. "Perfect day for a walk, is it not?"

"I was just saying so," Miss Lancester agreed. "Warm for March. Would you like to step out with us?"

Worston was nearly two miles away. They hadn't happened here by accident. Celeste was no green girl, nor was she so starved for company that she couldn't detect an ambush.

"Yes, please come," Miss Delilah urged her. "We so wish to know how you liked our party."

Miss Lancester regarded Celeste frankly. "Our little gathering couldn't be what you're used to in London. I do hope you enjoyed yourself."

"I did," Celeste replied slowly. They were definitely angling for her reaction. Why?

She looked for an answer that would suffice. "It was..." _Wonderful. Disheartening. Exciting._ "...educational. Thank you for the invitation."

They regarded her with similar expressions of exasperation. "Yes, well, no doubt you wonder how we country misses survive such insipid entertainments," Miss Lancester tried again. "But you were arm in arm with Lord Montborne most of the night, were you not? It must have seemed just like London."

Ah. There it was. Celeste hadn't spent her entire life around females without learning about envy.

She chose her words carefully. "I'd forgotten the marquis hails from Devon. Imagine my surprise when I encountered him here." That much was true.

Miss Delilah leaned in toward Celeste, offering a conspiratorial smile. "He seemed taken with you. I suppose he's rather handsome, if you favor the insouciant, Adonis type."

Miss Lancester suddenly dropped her pretense of friendly curiosity. "Better a gentleman than the farm laborers you ogle!" she said with a jab of her elbow into her sister's side.

"Gavin is a blacksmith, Lucy." Miss Delilah shook her head and gave a little _tsk_. "Why must you always be so unkind?"

It was quickly dissolving into an argument, which suited Celeste. They were no longer asking her uncomfortable questions. She also had to admit the sisterly exchange was fascinating to a woman whose childhood had been spent entirely alone.

"Unkind?" Miss Lancester replied hotly. "I defend you to Trestin every day. But really, why can't you set your sights higher? Even a soldier would be preferable to a farrier."

Miss Delilah's brown eyes went wide. "So he can _die_?"

Miss Lancester cast her an ironic look. "Smelting is _so_ safe. To say nothing of getting kicked in the head shoeing a horse, or dropping an anvil on one's foot--"

Miss Delilah appeared crestfallen. "Why can't you be happy for me?"

When Miss Lancester remained silent, her sister prodded, "Just because your situation is hopeless doesn't mean I shouldn't marry the man _I_ love."

Miss Lancester's spine arched. "What a terrible thing to say. Sometimes I vow you resent me."

Miss Delilah dropped her sister's arm and took a step back. "I do! I'd like nothing better than a five-room cottage and a pair of domestics, yet I must marry well because Trestin thinks he failed _you_. It's ridiculous."

Miss Lancester's lips formed an O of surprise. "Where did you get that idea?"

"From him! The very thought of you becoming a spinster makes him redouble his efforts against me. It's very selfish of you and I'm quite put out about it."

Miss Lancester brightened despite her sister's accusing tone. "Oh, Delilah darling, I had no idea. I thought _womanhood_ made you intolerable."

Delilah's answering laugh caught in her throat. "It has, just not for the reason you thought."

They seemed to have forgotten Celeste's presence completely. Yet she couldn't tear her eyes away, nor did she wish to interrupt.

When Miss Lancester spoke again, it was in a calm tone. "You know why I missed my Season, darling, and it is something we cannot regret anymore. Mother and Fa--"

"Oh, leave off," Delilah said sharply. "You missed _one Season_ because of Mother. Don't speak to me like I'm too dim-witted to know why you never asked Trestin to try again."

Delilah fumed. Miss Lancester appeared a little green. Then, in unspoken unison, they turned toward Celeste and linked arms again.

"Miss Smythe," the older girl said. "I vow you have some rather interesting opinions. After all, you are also unwed."

"Unless you are above gossip?" Delilah twirled her parasol innocently. A little too innocently. Celeste had a feeling she'd been neatly cornered.

"It's not gossiping when it's about oneself," Miss Lancester corrected. "Miss Smythe, we merely wish to ask a few questions. To clarify things."

Here it was, the true reason they'd come calling. "What kind of things?" Celeste asked.

Delilah leaned over. She twirled her parasol in a windmill behind her dark head. "Trestin is in high dudgeon and we believe it's your fault. We've never seen him this way. Last night, he and Roman--Ow!" She glared at her sister. "Your elbow is sharp."

Miss Lancester ignored her sister's scolding. Her demure smile set Celeste's pulse pounding. "We've merely a few things to _ask_."

Was there a way out of this? Or would evading their questions only make them more curious? "Does your brother know you're here?" Celeste asked.

The young ladies shared a speaking glance before bursting into laughter.

Miss Lancester recovered first. "Oh, dear Zeus, no! He should never permit that."

It was Delilah's turn to elbow her sister. "Lucy!"

"Well, she must know, mustn't she? It wouldn't be fair to ask her to help us without first explaining Trestin's feelings."

Celeste couldn't squelch her curiosity at that.

Delilah bit her rosy lower lip. "I suppose."

"Then it's settled." Miss Lancester turned to Celeste. "The thing is, Miss Smythe, our brother is storming about the house and being cross about every little thing. That in itself isn't cause for alarm; the difference is, this time he won't provide an explanation for it."

Delilah brightened. "Trestin _always_ gives a reason. Can you imagine? You must be quite awful." Her eyes glowed. "We simply couldn't wait another moment to find out why."

Celeste felt the blood drain from her face. Roman must have told him after all.

"Miss Smythe, are you all right?" Miss Lancester sounded genuinely concerned. "We didn't mean to give offense."

Celeste forced a smile. "Surprised, is all."

"I told you we should not ask her!" Miss Lancester hissed.

"Nonsense! This was _your_ idea. Why are you always blaming me?"

"You're the one who said we should--"

"Girls," Celeste interrupted, feeling much, much older than they, "I'm quite all right. And I assure you, your brother is, too. He merely was given a fright last night. I'm afraid I'm a bit shocking, and he was disappointed to learn of my poor manners."

Miss Lancester clutched Celeste's arm. "Ooh! I knew it! He is acting _just_ as if we were caught dipping in the stream. Are you also given to midnight strolls? Walking barefoot? Reading lurid novels? Staring at handsome men when you think no one is looking? Because I think we might make very good friends, then."

Oh, goodness. Had she sugar-coated it too well?

Then she had an uplifting thought. If the girls thought this was the extent of her sinning, perhaps Roman hadn't broken her trust after all. Maybe Lord Trestin _didn 't_ know what she'd been.

"Yes, I've done all that," she admitted with a hitched laugh, feeling suddenly hopeful, "and much more. But you should leave. He'll be very upset to know you've come here."

"Bosh. It doesn't require a large misstep to become inappropriate in Trestin's eyes." Miss Lancester smirked.

Celeste hesitated. It was already clear to her that Lord Trestin could be high-handed. It was just as evident that he loved his sisters, and seemed only to want the best for them. No different than her resolve to see Elizabeth's child born into a bright, happy future.

Even Celeste could see that her presence in Brixcombe had emboldened his wards. They were here, weren't they? When they surely shouldn't be. "I am loath to defend your brother, but in this instance he may be right. You can gain nothing by an association with me."

"And there you're wrong!" Miss Lancester cried. "What does Trestin know about women? He's nine and twenty, rarely leaves his gardens and certainly isn't a man about town. He takes his notions of propriety from books. Moldering books rotting in our ancient library. Books written by _men_."

Celeste couldn't help it. She burst into laughter. She was surprised, too, to realize he was so young. Goodness, now she felt positively _ancient_. At three and thirty, she was four years his senior.

It wasn't really her age that made her feel older, though, was it? For eighteen years, she'd cared for herself. That was practically a lifetime.

Miss Lancester grinned. "I see you know precisely what we mean. Trestin has never done anything wrong. He doesn't curse. He doesn't drink to excess. He doesn't ride too fast or too hard. He doesn't track home dirt. I doubt he's even shagged a milkmaid."

Delilah clapped a gloved hand to her mouth. "Lucy!"

"Oh, come now, as if you've never wondered. I think it would do us all good if he took a mistress, but he is too far above that. Much to my dismay, there isn't a woman worthy enough of him."

Celeste's chest squeezed. Certainly, _she_ wasn't worthy of Lord Trestin.

Delilah lowered her hand from her mouth. "It's true," she agreed. "He wants nothing less than a paragon for a wife." She smiled wryly. "It does put us in a bind. All that meticulous, frustrated attention turned on us."

"But not forever, we hope. He's bent on finding a wife in London, and I see no reason why he won't succeed." Miss Lancester pulled a face. "I pity her, whoever she is. The man is far too exacting."

_He was to marry._ Celeste had to remind herself to take another breath, for this unexpected pronouncement had stolen hers. _Of course he was to marry._ He was young, in possession of a title and all his teeth. What else would he do?

"I was ever so excited when he announced his intention to take a wife," Lucy continued, thrusting the dagger deeper into Celeste's breast, "for there was never a greater lost cause. He's quite happy in the country and disdainful of machinations, assignations and anything that smacks of fun. London is nothing but a cesspool in his eyes. Nonetheless, it's where he must go to find a suitable wife. The irony near causes his head to shatter."

A starling bird swooped from the overgrown grass and dived beside them, almost to the ground. The young ladies drew a collective breath, momentarily distracted by the bird. Celeste felt rather like the starling, hurtling to earth at breakneck speed. What had she thought? _Of course_ he meant to marry.

"Oh, what I would give to fly!" Lucy tipped her head back to better watch the starling's progress as it curved upward at the last second and soared into the sky. "Or even just to be a bird. No cares, no men. No brothers."

"I've always wanted a brother," Celeste divulged when the starling dived again. "Surely there must be something good about him."

The young ladies looked at each other before bursting into laughter again. "No, not really," they said together.

"He was affected by our parents' deaths," Lucy explained. "He fears the three of us are inherently prone to scandal." She shrugged as if this were absurd, instead of highly possible and quite likely true, given what Celeste had seen so far. "At any rate, while other girls enjoy being young and unattached, _we_ are not allowed to do anything that might be interpreted as fast."

Delilah indicated the moorlands dotted with family farmsteads and craggy outcroppings. "Worse yet, Devon isn't exactly flush with suitors, especially not ones up to Trestin's standards. We aren't allowed to speak to ineligible men, let alone flirt with them."

"Not that it's stopped you." Lucy smirked at her sister.

Delilah gasped in dramatic betrayal. "My horse threw a shoe!"

"If that's what they're calling it these days."

"Oh! You!"

Lucy chuckled, not the least contrite. "Miss Smythe, as you can see, we need you. We are desperate for entertainment. We attempted to steal Trestin's curricle only to find it's not as easy to drive a team as it looks. We dived into the bay for a lark and immediately caught cold. Then there was the time we sneaked into Moll's after dark--"

"Goodness, please don't tell me how that went." Moll's was Brixcombe's seamiest tavern, just beside the Hound and Hen. Celeste could imagine the scene they witnessed inside.

Delilah's brown eyes danced. "We saw bubbies everywhere!"

Celeste was torn between laughter and horror. Poor Lord Trestin.

When the young ladies stopped snickering, Lucy composed herself and turned to Celeste. "In London, Trestin will chain us to him, for there's vice to be found in every nook and cranny. By fall, Delilah will be a proper lady and I will be firmly on the shelf. We really have only three or four weeks left to enjoy ourselves. If you are just a little fast, I beg you to take pity on us. Teach us to drive a curricle or prank Roman or climb a tree--whatever it is you've done that my brother finds so objectionable. Please? For the Sisterhood?"

_Sisterhood._ Goose pimples prickled Celeste's flesh.

"Yes, the Sisterhood!" Delilah chimed. "The Sisterhood of Untamed Females. We're sorely in need of members."

Celeste's heart warmed. They needed _her._

It was difficult to resist. But goodness, these girls were primed for trouble. Did Lord Trestin know the extent of what was occurring beneath his very roof?

She could tattle on them, but she hadn't the heart. They were fast becoming rather dear to her.

What if she accompanied them as they'd asked, but with the purest of intentions? Surely with her experience she could keep them from coming to any real harm, especially as they seemed unaware of the extent of her "experience." That was the best part, really. They didn't know about her past aside from what they innocently supposed, yet they desired her company. She was nothing more than a newcomer to the area, a way to pass the time and perhaps make a new friend. After Roman and Lord Trestin's treatment of her, she quite liked that.

And if she didn't tell them about her previous career as a lightskirt, they would never be tempted to follow her example. Lord Trestin's concern for his sisters' reputations seemed especially valid where Lucy was concerned. Her independent streak disquieted even Celeste.

It was only for a few weeks. She might never have another chance to join in innocent fun like this. Climb a tree? Why, she'd never even considered it.

By their own admission, these young ladies needed her. And with her heart feeling as though it had been shredded by Roman's condemnation of her, she could readily admit she needed them.

**Chapter 12**

SWAN, THE HEAD gardener at Worston, indicated the gaping cavity at Ash's feet. "Are you digging a hole to China, my lord?" He pointed to a mound of black dirt piled high beside it. "I'm sure that apple blossom won't appreciate being six feet under."

Ash paused and leaned on his shovel, realizing Swan was right. "Thanks," he muttered, and stomped on the shovel's head to jam it into the ground. He stretched his arms behind his back, pulling his muscles taut, and swiped the back of his glove against his brow. His glove came away darkened with perspiration and dirt. The sun was out, a luxury this time of year, but it made short work of him. His coat was spread over a hedgerow, alongside his cravat.

Digging holes in March didn't usually have him perspiring like a farmhand. Fortunately, his sisters never trailed him out of doors. He was filthy--even for an afternoon in his grove--and they would never allow him to hear the end of it.

The day was beautiful. An early blackcap sang in the scrub. Squirrels darted to and fro, chasing each other as they hurried to nest. One particularly intrepid creature skirted the hole now too deep for the apple blossom, kicking dirt into the crater.

Ash's mind was clearly elsewhere. He couldn't account for his behavior last night except to claim madness. But wasn't that the truth? His mind was no longer sound when it came to her. He _wanted_ to kiss her again. Longed to be near her, to see if she'd come away from their encounter with the same impassioned confusion he had. He wanted to ask her about Montborne.

He couldn't make sense of his lost control, and he hated the way it made him feel. There was one explanation for Montborne's warning last night, a new possibility Ash had only thought of in the early morning hours. Montborne feared Ash was like his father. That he would become obsessed with a woman to the detriment of all else. It could happen, couldn't it? It had already started.

After last night's kiss he could no longer deny his physical attraction to her. But was it _his_ fault, an artifact from his father's example? Or was the fault hers?

She meant to captivate. It was in the seductive sway of her hips and the proud curve of her spine. The lingering looks she sent from beneath her lashes. She meant for men to want her. What had Roman said? All of London was at her feet. Did that mean he was nothing more than an innocent spectator observing her game?

Or was he a player?

He couldn't imagine a world where he carelessly coupled with women he barely knew. Nameless, faceless women, one after the other and occasionally at the same time. He couldn't do it. He was proud to be nothing like his father. He'd worked hard to contain the base nature that drew him to seductive women.

He yanked the shovel from the ground and jammed it into the sod, beginning a new hole.

Ten minutes later, Swan coughed discreetly. Ash scowled at his second hole, now almost as deep as the first. He might as well dig out the dirt between them and create a pond, they were that large.

Frustrated, he nonetheless set out to shovel a third, more appropriate-sized hole. He'd never let himself act so irrationally over a woman before. It was galling.

A woman's shriek pierced through the trees.

Ash dropped his shovel. After catching Swan's eye, they both bolted through the oak stand. With his heart in his throat, Ash tore through his carefully planted hedgerows and made for the rear of the property, where a line of sessile oaks proudly overlooked the bay.

More shrieks, then laughter. His fright turned to suspicion. Holding out his hand, he slowed his man. Together, they eased through the brush and took cover, the better to observe his sisters and their mischief.

Good God. If they didn't break their necks, he was going to strangle them himself.

Lucy and Delilah stood yards away from the cliff's edge, poised at the base of an old oak. They were dressed in shirtsleeves and breeches. Not _his_ shirtsleeves and breeches, for his sisters were tiny, delicate things, and he was a man. Someone smaller than he, but not as big as his sisters, had contributed to their cause.

If the garments had clung any tighter, he would have asked Swan to turn away. Instead, Ash could think only of their safety. A fierce wind whipped over the cliff and rustled the trees. Twigs and leaves rained from the branches, catching in their hair. They paid no heed. They peered into the tree, shielding their eyes with their hands, and called out encouragement to a third troublemaker backing down the trunk.

The old oak shook as she descended. He could guess who it was without seeing her face. He indicated for Swan to remain at the edge of the clearing.

Livid, Ash stormed the tree. "Lucy! Delilah! What in God's name are you doing?"

They opened their mouths. No sound came out.

"Yes, well, I can barely conjure the words to describe this horror, myself. You could kill yourselves climbing that tree."

"That is evidently not as likely as you think," Lucy began.

He set his hands on his hips, looking reprovingly at both young women. "Who gave you those breeches?"

Lucy shushed Delilah before replying, "No one."

"No one--" he sputtered. "I take it this 'no one' is about five feet tall with a waist as trim as a girl's? Swan," he called over his shoulder, "find every 'no one' who fits this description and line them up. 'No one' is about to get an extended holiday courtesy of the heel of my boot."

"Trestin, no! We stole them." Delilah could always be counted on to lie when needed. Usually to cover for Lucy's harebrained scheming.

"And I suppose Miss Smythe stole hers, too?" He enjoyed the near-identical looks of dismay on their faces. "Well, then. Off. With. Her. Head." He made little orchestrating motions as he punctuated the words.

Strangely, his outrage at catching his sisters in the middle of yet another lark paled in comparison to his disappointment in Miss Smythe. Hadn't she promised not to encourage their hoyden ways? What, then, was she doing in the damned tree?

"It was our fault!" Lucy said, closing the distance to seize his hand. "We talked her into it. She's never climbed a tree in her life. Truly, Trestin, she's from London. We--" She stopped to peer at the filthy, torn leather of his glove. "What on earth have you been doing?"

He yanked it back. "That is none of your concern."

"I rather think it is, if you're going to yell my head off about a little exercise."

"This isn't exercise. A light stroll in the morning air or a jaunt to tend the sick is exercise." In his frustration, he clutched at straws. "When was the last time you tended the sick?"

" _Is_ anyone sick?"

"That isn't the point."

Miss Smythe's rounded bottom suddenly pushed through the leaves over his head. Ash tried not to watch--God, how he tried--but her bottom was a magnet. He was, in a scientific way, like little iron flakes lining up powerlessly in a dish. He couldn't _not_ look.

She dropped to the ground without assistance, wiping her hands on an old red handkerchief tied around her slender waist. "My lord, what a surprise it is to see you." She regarded him with none of the passion she'd bestowed upon him the previous night.

But that wasn't to say she regarded him blankly. Her green eyes glowed with mischief and her silken skin gleamed with exertion and pleasure. Her shirtsleeves were untied at the collar, baring the dewy valley between her breasts to the sun--and his sisters' impressionable eyes.

He dug around in his pocket and turned up his handkerchief, one he'd given up on several hours ago, soggy with perspiration as it was. Damn it. He could hardly stuff a sopping handkerchief down her decolletage.

"Miss Smythe," he said archly, "you seem to have forgotten to lace your collar closed."

She glanced at the perfect porcelain mounds heaving in his face. Her laugh was husky. "Just so, my lord. How kind of you to notice."

But he wasn't kind, nor was he having kind thoughts. Just the kind of thoughts he wished he wouldn't have. She was doing it again, and this time he was _sure_ it wasn't his fault. She was the one in breeches as tight as a second skin. She was the one who hadn't bothered to cover up key points of her anatomy. She was laughing at him with her eyes, as though she wasn't the least bit embarrassed by her behavior. It was her. Definitely her.

"Lucy, Delilah, go home."

"Why?" they exclaimed together, as if that weren't exactly where the afternoon's events had been heading.

"Trestin, please. We're just having a spot of fun." Lucy crossed her arms, looking too much like their mother not to raise his ire.

He dismissed Miss Smythe from his mind for now. Every damp, voluptuous inch of her. "'Fun' doesn't include risking life and limb, nor ruining your reputations. Go with Swan to the house and change out of those clothes. I want everything returned. Breeches, truly? Do you not care a whit for your reputations?"

"No one was going to see!" Lucy's shoulders set. First her refusal to marry, then her desire to open a boarding school, now this. What had he done wrong?

Exasperated, he bit out, "This 'no one' is a cheeky fellow. Home. Now."

They complied, but only because they must. He found himself alone with Miss Smythe, without even the semblance of a chaperone.

He didn't care. "Was this your idea?"

She shook her head, tumbling her mass of red curls from its knot. "No, my lord. I can honestly say this was not."

"But you meant to give them ideas."

She grimaced, her first sign of remorse. "Nothing that would harm them."

"Nothing like climbing the tallest oak on the outermost edge of my steepest cliff?"

"What a fanciful imagination you have, my lord. I see only a medium-sized, sturdy tree set well away from a breathtaking vista. What can be the harm in that?"

"Breeches," he gritted. "Respectable young women do not wear breeches."

"Ah, yes. Well, as I am neither young nor respectable, I must have forgotten. Or perhaps times have changed."

"Not that much." But he paused. _Times have changed_.

He peered at her closely. She wasn't exaggerating. Tiny crows' feet kissed the outer corners of her eyes. "How old are you?"

Her throaty chuckle sent shivers along his spine. "Old enough."

Old enough to be thrown to the ground and entangled in a hot embrace. Old enough to brazenly stare him down.

He caught himself. _Older than he._ Definitely older than his young, impressionable sisters. How had he missed that? Her age was a sudden shock that he needed time to digest. "Then you should know climbing trees is for boys in the schoolroom. Not young women or..." He raised his eyebrows at the feathery lines edging her eyes. "...otherwise."

She nodded, still smiling. Those oddly adorable little crows' feet laughed at him. "Completely unacceptable. Horribly inappropriate for anyone over the age of twelve."

"Then why...?" Did women exist merely to torment him?

The corner of her delectable mouth lifted. "It's fun, my lord."

"Fun?"

She shrugged, a common gesture at odds with the lady he wished her to be. "If you tried it, you'd understand the draw. There's a certain thrill to it many find addictive. Even women."

_Thrill._ Everything about her was thrilling. He could see himself becoming an addict. He stepped closer, aware that the scant distance between them was the only thing stopping him from kissing that smug look off her face. "Fine, then."

Her lips curved at the corners. "Fine, then, what?"

"I'll climb the damned tree." It was either that, or kiss her.

Her smirk broke into a grin, lighting her face. "You will?"

Warmth spread through him, irritating him. How could he make her that happy with such a small capitulation? Why the hell did her being happy have to make him happy? "Yes, and after I've proved what a great load of nonsense tree climbing is, I'm escorting you home. Stay here."

He stormed the tree with his hackles raised. When he was toe-to-trunk with it, he stopped to inspect his boots. They were an old pair, scarred from afternoons working beside his head gardener. As his sister had so kindly pointed out, his leather gloves had seen better days. Well, then. He may as well get this over with.

He rolled up his shirtsleeves and flexed his hands then toed his boot into a gnarled whorl and grabbed a sturdy branch over his head.

Up he went. Leaves rattled as the tree dipped and snapped under his weight. His muscles protested when he strained to reach a higher branch or gain a firmer foothold. He paused to inspect a robin's nest, but quickly scrambled up another few branches when the angry mother squawked at him.

After wrestling fifteen or so feet, he wondered if he shouldn't have been more specific. Foliage and twigs melted into each other, obscuring his view. Was he climbing all the way to the top? Where was the top? Branches shot out in every direction. Most seemed too spindly to hold his weight. He opted to follow the trunk as closely as possible and refused to look down when he sensed he was higher up than he had supposed from the ground. So this was climbing. It seemed a lot more work than he remembered.

And still... Indescribable victory flooded him as he popped up through the last smattering of canopy. The moors stretched before him, rolling in mismatched squares. The onion dome of Worston Heights peeped like a cloud between the trees. Behind him, the bay stretched to infinity. A light breeze rocked the tree.

He laughed out loud. Perhaps there was something to climbing, after all.

An answering chuckle alerted him to the tree just behind his. He carefully repositioned himself. Naturally, his warning to stay put would go completely unheeded. Miss Smythe was high in the next oak. Oddly, he wasn't provoked. Suddenly--suddenly, he wondered why he hadn't thought to strike a deal with her.

His submission for her kiss.

She would have agreed. He didn't doubt it. In a few minutes, they'd be reduced to hot tongues sparring for control. A sensual mimic of the battle they'd waged verbally.

In due course, she would yield to his plundering. Press her curves flat against him as a sacrifice to the starving beast within him.

She would call his name. _Ashlin._

The notion dashed like cold water against his skin. The smile wiped from his face. Reality. He must focus on reality. But what was reality when one was waving with the wind in a tree?

That was where he'd gone wrong. He'd had the situation in hand and then he'd let her bait him to foolishness. What was it about him that couldn't resist her? What was it about _her_?

Backing down proved more difficult than climbing up. When his boots finally touched the ground, he waited impatiently for her to descend her tree. This entire escapade was ridiculous. What devil had made him do something so imprudent? So foolhardy? So _invigorating?_

When she reached the ground, she spun to face him. Her chin notched up. "I can make my own way home, my lord."

For some reason, that only irritated him more. "That is precisely the attitude I take issue with. I don't care what your age is or how firmly you are on the shelf. You are an unmarried woman. You ought to have a chaperone. You ought to have... _something_."

Her eyes blazed. "What gives you the right to lecture me? You are not _my_ brother."

"Damned right I'm not. I would have locked you in the attic, wrapped your--" he indicated the generous expanse of cleavage heaving magnificently, " _this_ in a blanket, and beat away all the loathsome 'suitors' who meant you harm."

"Is that so? And if I had a brother, what do you think he should have done to _you_ last night? Smacked your cheek with his glove? Called for a special license?"

Ash drew back. He hated that she'd thrown his mistake in his face. "It was just a kiss."

But there was no such thing as just a kiss. One kiss could have them leg-shackled, if the right person witnessed it. If her reputation were as clean as the driven snow, one kiss could be enough to cause her ruination.

But they weren't being watched right now. And deep inside him, he knew his kiss hadn't been her first.

Indignation brought fire into her eyes.

She was beautiful. Angry. But hissing, spitting mad, she was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. Had he really imagined himself with a meek woman? Surely there would be no fun in that.

"Just a kiss," he whispered. To himself, for maybe his father had been on to something with his pursuit of passionate women. Ladies of the night, tavern wenches, even Ash's own mother. His father had never been happy to merely exist.

For the first time, Ash had an inkling why. "Just a kiss."

And to prove just a kiss meant nothing, he stepped forward. Pressed his body to her slight, shaking one. And kissed her.

Her lips were sweet, soft, with just a hint of salt. She recoiled at the suddenness of his approach but he stroked his hands over her back until she eased. Then he delved into her hot mouth and thrust his hands into that mass of hair that was never tamed. He pulled her closer. Then closer still, until the swell in his breeches became unbearable.

He lifted her easily and had her against the oak in two steps. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he groaned and pressed deeper, allowing himself a hint of relief. It was, in a word, madness. But he wasn't mad. He was merely his father's son.

Readily she responded, all curves and wanton womanliness. He should have realized sooner she wasn't the young woman he'd imagined her as. She was too confident, and damned if he wasn't aware of her appeal.

"Trestin," she said, freeing her lips to breathe his name. "Oh, Trestin. We cannot do this."

"Yes, I know," he replied, kissing her, squeezing his eyes shut, letting his hands roam her body. He grasped handfuls of curves. Breasts. Hips. Buttocks.

So this was how Montborne was always getting himself into trouble. This was what had killed his father.

Ash stilled. Slowly, he released her. She wasn't angry anymore. At least, the thoroughly kissed look on her face didn't hint at it.

Instead, she regarded him wryly, with a hint of resignation. As though she had known it would come to this. "I cannot be cross with you anymore. You're only behaving as men do."

Was this how men behaved? All men? Or just the depraved ones? Just the ones who had lost control?

His disgust with himself knew no bounds. Straightening, he set her down and unhooked their hands, which somehow had become a tangle of fingers and palms. As though he couldn't quite let her go, despite knowing it must be done.

"If you suppose this is how a man behaves," he said, "I have some grave doubts about your past." He grimaced. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh. Not when it was he who'd dragged her against the tree.

She only laughed. "You amuse me, Lord Trestin, and so I shall make you a deal. Allow me to befriend your sisters and I will allow you to pay court to me. You can show me exactly how it is a proper gentleman behaves."

_A direct hit._ He could no more behave with decorum around her than she could stop seducing him. "Funny, as I want neither of those things."

That infernal eyebrow rose. "As you say."

He did say, damn it. Why were women always second-guessing him?

Cross now with her, with himself, with his damnable infected bloodlines and with his prick, he signaled her to follow him. Together they began the short trek back to his coat and gloves. From there they walked to her cottage in silence, though the cacophony in his head made it seem a troupe of gypsies followed behind.

At her cottage gate, he thrust her through it, then marched her up to the door. Self-loathing, pure and simple, had replaced the lust in his veins.

It was evident that his will to resist her depleted each second he was with her. At this rate, he'd be begging her to let him into her bed by nightfall. That would be the end, the very bottom of him, exposing the shameful parts of himself he'd buried in the years since his father died.

Who would he be then?

**Chapter 13**

****

ON THE VERY day Celeste and Elizabeth directed their servants to move their belongings from the Hound and Hen to their cottage, Elizabeth went into labor.

"It will be at least another day," the local physician informed them after looking her over. "These things take time, especially with the first."

Celeste worried her lower lip as he collected his instrument bag from the foot of the bed and prepared to leave. "What should I do?"

Elizabeth let out a squeal of pain. "Kill him!"

She didn't have to explain it wasn't the doctor she wanted dead.

Celeste squeezed her hand--or attempted to. Elizabeth's grip made hers seem feeble. "That won't help your pain, dearest."

Perspiration beaded across Elizabeth's reddened brow. Her eyes squeezed shut as her fingers dug into the bedsheet beneath her. "It will certainly make _me_ happier."

Doctor Whitton's smile inched up at the corner. "See that there are clean linens and hot water available when the time comes. Mrs. Inglewood might consider walking around a bit if she is able, to speed the babe's arrival. I'll be back in the morning."

"I wish you could stay." Celeste glanced again at Elizabeth. What could she do for a woman in the last stages of childbirth, except watch helplessly from the side of the bed? "But if you're sure it will be another day, then I suppose you must go. Will I be able to reach you if we require you earlier?"

He patted his coat pockets as if reassuring himself he hadn't forgotten anything, then looked up at her. "I can't promise to be in any particular place, for an emergent call may require my attention. But you may leave a message with my wife and I'll come as soon as I'm able."

"Thank you." Celeste leaned over Elizabeth and pushed a damp lock of hair from her friend's brow. "He'll be back tomorrow, dearest." She patted the top of Elizabeth's hard belly. "Do you hear that?" she asked the babe. "There's no rush. None at all."

But her words went unheeded.

Nine hours later, Celeste, Elizabeth, and Celeste's maid of all work, Hildegard, pooled their collective knowledge of midwifery and arranged Elizabeth at the foot of the bed. Elizabeth's knees jutted into the air and a sheet covered her thighs. The enormity of what was about to happen sent Celeste into a panic.

"Have you heard anything from Doctor Whitton?" she asked Hildegard for the tenth time, though she knew very well her housekeeper had not. They'd sent a note two hours ago, when only a guinea-sized opening had heralded the baby's arrival. That opening was now roughly the size of an apple, and every so often, the tiniest wet tuft of baby's hair emerged before slipping back in.

Hildegard shook her head. Her old hazel eyes were worried. Normally, she was a natterbox. Celeste never felt entirely alone when Hildegard was near, for she had a way of bustling about that made Celeste feel fussed over. Her silence tonight confirmed her fear more than anything she might have said.

"Is he coming?" Elizabeth half-yelled, half-sobbed as another contraction wracked her body. "It would be just like a man for him to leave me like this!"

"No, madam," Hildegard said, as she replaced the hot cloth over Elizabeth's brow with a cool one. Even she couldn't provide the reassurance either woman needed.

An hour later, a commotion in the front parlor caused Celeste's heart to leap. She dropped Elizabeth's hand and raced to the door. "Is Doctor Whitton here?" she called to Tom as she barreled into the hallway.

"No. It's only me."

Just hearing Lord Trestin's voice reassured her. Though she couldn't think what he could do, for surely he was no more skilled in childbirth than she. And yet, she'd written to him, because she'd known no one else who might help her.

He entered the hallway and she had her first look at him since that day at the tree, two weeks ago now. "Good evening." He handed his riding gloves and hat to the waiting footman and strode toward Celeste with purpose. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Do you need to have a lie down?"

She shook her head as he pressed his cool, bare hands to her face. All the fear she'd buried in the last hours came to the surface in a heaving, shaking breath. Before she could stop it, a single tear collected at the corner of her eye. She raised her hand to wipe it away lest he see her weakness, but he caught her hand. He touched the hot, wet corner of her eye with the tip of his finger. "Tell me what to do."

"I--" But that was the core of it. She didn't know.

"There, there." He gathered her into his arms and pressed the side of his face to her temple. He felt strong, wrapped around her comfortingly. Warm. Kind. Burying her face into his chest, she inhaled sharply of his scent, memorizing it, cherishing the feel of his body around hers. He felt so good.

She couldn't help herself. She cried for Elizabeth, who was in so much pain. For the baby, whose birth had already gone awry. For herself, because Lord Trestin was here, he had come, and she wasn't alone anymore though she scarcely believed he'd taken pity on her.

It was only a moment, but it felt like a lifetime of tears. She'd needed to be held, had craved it since the night Roman had touched her wrist and made her realize she wanted to mean something to someone.

Trestin soothed the middle of her back with his strong hands. When her sobs subsided as quickly as they had started, he offered her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her tears and collected herself, once again becoming the calm woman who had taken care of herself since she was naught but a child.

"Thank you for coming," she said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "I had no idea who else to turn to."

The barest frisson of doubt lurked in his eyes. "In these matters, I fear I may not have been the surest choice. However, my head groom should arrive within minutes. He was on my heels."

Celeste let out a bark of laughter. "A groomsman? Is Elizabeth foaling?"

Trestin smiled slowly, nearly stopping her heart with the rare show of self-deprecation. "How different can it be?"

A banging at the front door startled them. Quickly, Celeste was introduced to Stevens. Then the three of them moved to Elizabeth's bedchamber, where the groom wasted no time kneeling at the foot of the bed.

"She's crowning," he announced without preamble. "It will be minutes, perhaps an hour."

"What can I do?" Trestin didn't move from the doorway. Celeste was impressed by his presence nonetheless. He'd provided a solution to the best of his abilities. He'd _come_. He hadn't needed to, for Stevens could as easily arrived alone.

But he _had_ come. And he'd held her. That alone helped her more than he would ever know.

"I sent runners in search of Whitton," he said when no one replied to his initial offer of assistance. "His wife said he was called to Plymouth and can't be expected back before daylight."

Stevens looked up from his crouched position at the foot of the bed. He didn't wince when Elizabeth belted out another cry. "Where are the towels?"

Celeste grabbed a stack from the bedside table and held them to him. He set them on the mattress. Then he turned his attention to Lord Trestin. "You can help by lifting her into a more comfortable position. Seated is better, but we haven't the equipment for it. If you can get her onto her knees, she will be in far less pain."

Celeste caught Hildegard's eye. They shrugged at the same time. If the man wanted to deliver the baby like it was a foal, they were in no position to argue.

Trestin slid his arm around Elizabeth's shoulders and brought her onto her knees. Stevens coached her, murmuring nonsense to her, occasionally shouting, and sliding his hands over Elizabeth's nether regions in ways even Celeste hadn't been touched.

Inch by inch, the baby's head emerged. Then its tiny little hands.

As Hildegard wrung hot towels out, Celeste mutely passed them to Stevens. After a time, her heart ceased twisting every time Elizabeth screamed. Her focus became so intense she barely heard anything at all. It was the most magical scene she had ever witnessed, and she saw it all as if through a glass window. Elizabeth was having a _baby_.

As Stevens turned the child so its little face came into view, Celeste's heart burst with love.

She looked up and beamed at Elizabeth. She felt overwhelmed by a new, maternal emotion that made her feel needed.

Then she caught Trestin staring at her. She placed her palm on her own belly, for a moment forgetting to hand a hot towel to Stevens.

Trestin's gaze slowly lowered to her hand.

Elizabeth screamed. Celeste looked up. The baby suddenly dropped into Steven's waiting hands. He turned it over, patting its back, wiping away the mucus from its mouth and nose. Then he held the squealing bundle up for Elizabeth's inspection. "It's a boy," he announced. "A healthy son any man would be proud to call his own."

Celeste forced a smile to her lips. For Elizabeth's sake, and for the sake of their male witnesses, who expected them to be thrilled by the arrival of the firstborn son. But this little boy had inherited nothing from his father, not even his father's name. In the best circumstance, he would be a by-blow his sire completely ignored. At worst, he would be an embarrassment, taunted for life because he hadn't been born legitimate.

Either way, she would love him. She tried to catch Elizabeth's eye to tell her so, but it was impossible. The new mother, who had expressed so little interest in her unborn baby during her confinement, gazed at her squalling son with awe.

With a few murmured directions, Lord Trestin helped Elizabeth recline. Stevens worked between her legs another few minutes, then placed the baby in her arms. Hildegard fussed with a blanket, tucking it in around mother and son. Then they all stood back and breathed a collective sigh of relief.

For one beautiful, glorious moment, everything was perfect.

**Chapter 14**

****

THE NEXT DAY dawned blue and warm, splendid weather for the rowing party planned that afternoon. But the cloudless sky was ineffectual at settling Ash's turbulent thoughts.

_She_ would be there, at the bay. His sisters had arranged it and he'd been powerless to stop it; his best recourse was to chaperone. But he wasn't ready to see her yet. He had no idea whether the previous night had changed anything, or whether everything was as awkward now as it had been before. He needed a moment alone to sort it all out, if it could even be sorted out. He needed _her_ alone.

Why would he want them to be alone?

He followed his sisters down the rocky path to the water. They brought with them a light repast and two servants to heave rowboats from the boathouse. A quarter hour later, the vessels bobbed gently along the shore, but Miss Smythe was still nowhere to be seen.

Ash scoured the cliff tops. Had she had a change of mind? Mayhap she'd overslept after the long night, or was occupied with the infant. He'd even prefer she'd taken ill. Any excuse was better than believing she'd decided to avoid him.

Lucy and Delilah diverted themselves by scavenging for seashells among the rocks. They wandered along the shore arm in arm. Ash dug his boot heels into the stones and waited. Waves lapped calmly toward his toes, pushed by a light, salty breeze.

He gazed across the pristine water, feeling its expanse, imagining taking the boat to sea and never returning. If he had no responsibilities, no cares, the world outside of Brixcombe would surely be an adventuresome place. But he was fixed to Brixcombe like a tree whose roots snarled deep into the soil. When he returned from London with a wife in tow, he need never leave again.

A wife. What made him think he could take a wife just now?

He scanned the cliffs behind him. No curvy silhouette marched across the edge. No bonnet-capped siren picked her way down the steep path. No sign at all that she'd come as planned. He stopped his thoughts there, before he actually sounded disappointed.

What did it matter if she avoided him? It would be better that way. Taking her into his arms last night had done nothing but prove she was as soft and vulnerable as she looked. That she could melt into him for comfort, and not just a torrid kiss. That he wasn't thinking the least bit about taking a wife. He was far too distracted by _her_.

Lord Montborne's voice behind Ash startled him. "Your face the other night was one I'd rather not see again. I have a feeling this one's worse."

Ash turned, surprised the marquis had come down the bluff so quickly. There'd been neither hide nor hair of him a moment ago.

Ash scowled at the last person he wished to see. "Who invited you?"

The marquis rolled his eyes. "I'm always invited."

Ash supposed it was true. Their friendship was preordained, for their mothers had been fast friends. Back when Lady Montborne had been Lady Clara, and Ash's mother had liked to laugh.

But he couldn't let go of his anger yet. Roman had started all of this when he'd implied Ash's suspicion about Miss Smythe's lost virtue was correct. Montborne's own motivations were suspect.

They turned in tandem to watch Ash's sisters inch farther down the shore. The girls' pink bonnets nearly touched as they exclaimed over a tidal pool carved into the rocks.

"Hurts like hell, doesn't it?" Montborne asked.

Ash glanced at his friend in surprise. He hadn't expected empathy, not after their last exchange. Nor was he ready for it. "I have no idea to what you're referring."

"Only the melancholy look on your face that smacks of blue devils."

Ash clenched his jaw. "I'm not melancholy." He certainly wasn't blue-deviled.

Montborne brushed at invisible lint on his sore arm's coat sleeve. "Is that so? I've never seen a man who looked more anxious."

Restless. Irritated. Unsatisfied. But not anxious. Anxious would mean he cared whether she joined them today, which he did not.

Ash turned, arms crossed, and raised an imperious brow. "Do you enjoy irritating me?"

Montborne grinned. "It _is_ diverting. Especially as I've only known you to fuss over those little female versions of yourself."

"You try raising girls, and see if you have time for anything else."

His friend laughed. "God, no, my brothers are impossible enough without having to worry whether they're going to marry." He turned to Ash, one blond eyebrow curved inquiringly. "I'm trying to be patient, but I'll come straight to the point. I saw you ride away from the Amherst property this morning. Care to enlighten me?"

Ash dropped his arms. His hands balled into fists. "Are you following me?"

The marquis bent and picked up a stone. He rolled it between his fingers, then held it up for his inspection. "I do, occasionally, rise before noon just for my own personal edification."

"If you're implying something untoward occurred between Miss Smythe and myself last night..."

The marquis looked Ash directly in the eye, all pretenses gone. "It doesn't matter what I think. It's the appearance of impropriety I'm concerned about, something I've heard you warn your sisters against time and time again. One cannot explain himself to everyone. Trust me, Ashlin. I know."

"Mrs. Inglewood was delivered of her child last night," Ash bit out. Did he really need to defend his actions to a man who'd never once considered his own?

"As I stated," Montborne replied, "it matters not _why_ you were there. All I saw--and I saw it with my own eyes, mind--was you leaving her house in the early morning hours. Ashlin, you must have a care. Some rumors circulate more easily than others."

"Is that so?" Ash sneered.

Montborne lifted one shoulder as if he wished he were wrong. "I'm afraid it is. Especially when it comes to her."

Ash gritted his teeth. "What the devil is so special about Miss Smythe that you must constantly warn me away from her?" He took a step toward his friend. "What is it you're hiding?"

"Me?" Montborne looked offended but Ash didn't relent. He was ready to plant his best friend a facer if it meant finally having the truth.

At long last, Montborne inhaled with a great show of resignation. "I see. Disappointing, but hardly unexpected. For the moment, I'm going to ignore the fact that you clearly believe me an out and out rotter." He looked away sharply, clearly frustrated with himself. "She's ruined, Ashlin."

"I _know._ " He was weary of thinking about it.

The marquis narrowed his eyes. "I've never touched her. I told you that. How could you know she's unchaste?"

His question gave Ash pause.

His pause allowed Montborne more time to regard him.

"You knew," Montborne said slowly. His eyebrows rose as if he'd just solved a mystery. "Because _you 've_ been with her."

"No," Ash said too quickly.

Montborne tipped his head forward. "Yes, you have. How else could you be so sure she's compromised?"

Ash felt cornered. "Because beautiful women don't suddenly closet themselves in the middle of nowhere unless they have reason to do so?"

"Because you admire her and you're trying to justify it. You're the most muddled, frustrated beau I've seen since the last time I took a fancy to a woman."

"Which was when?"

"Yesterday." After a pause, Montborne lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Women are so very lovely, it is damned difficult to choose."

Ash swallowed his disgust.

The marquis shrugged again. "Enough about me. How bad is it?"

Pulling off his hat, Ash ran his hand through his hair. The bay roiled before him as turbulently as his emotions. He didn't want to confide in anyone, least of all the man who inexplicably frowned on his infatuation. But he could also use his friend's advice. "What do you mean?"

"How far has it gone? Have you bedded her?"

"Good God, Montborne, she's not some tavern wench." He looked just in time to catch Montborne grimace. "What?"

"What if she is?"

He stilled. "What are you saying?"

Montborne stubbed his booted toe into the stones. "We agree she's ruined. What choices are left to a woman without her virtue? I mean, if she became some kind of...I don't know. Whore. Would you still want her?"

Ash's whole body went numb. "I should call you out for that."

The marquis glanced up, not appearing the least threatened. "I'm just curious. What would it take for you to leave her alone?"

What would it _take_? Ash tried to swallow but his throat was dry. This wasn't a matter of setting her aside because she wasn't pure enough to be his future viscountess. Nor was it a hypothetical situation Montborne described. This was a real concern for her future. What if she ended up a loose woman, all because no man had stepped in to help her, including Montborne?

"Your silence is terrifying me, Ashlin." Despite Montborne's friendly chiding, his teasing ran with an undercurrent. He may not have ruined her, but he was definitely involved with her somehow.

Ash drew himself straighter as he became surer Montborne _was_ a party to her ruin. The man was never going to admit it, but it was right there in his hawk-like guarding of her. Miss Smythe meant more to him any of the other young ladies he'd ruined. Ash might never know why. But hadn't _he_ always tidied up the destruction left in Montborne's wake? The injustice done to her was far too late to avenge, but Ash couldn't be aware of her plight and _not_ help.

What could he do to make it right? What did he _want_ to do?

That question gave him permission to unleash his deepest fantasy. _He could have her for his own._ If he became her protector, he could ensure she was cared for. He could comfort her with more than an embrace. When she'd fallen into his arms the previous night, she'd proved she'd relied on herself too long. He couldn't make up for the lost opportunities another man had stolen from her, but at least she wouldn't be entirely alone.

Could he live with himself if he took a mistress?

Montborne's expression changed from serious to condemning in an instant. "Are you honestly considering it?"

Ash scowled. "My affairs are none of your business."

Montborne leaned on his walking stick with his good arm and regarded Ash with disdain. "Is that so? You've suddenly grown up and become a man?"

Ash stepped forward. "Strong words from someone who ran home with his tail between his legs."

Montborne's mouth dropped open at Ash's unprecedented attack. Then his face hardened. "Stop trying to act the jaded rake. You deplore vice, depravity and anything else the rest of us consider entertainment. You cannot handle a fallen woman and for God's sake, your sisters' reputations cannot, either."

"I only wish to provide for her," Ash growled, not appreciating the reminder about his sisters. "Not that I must explain myself to you."

"Provide her what?" Montborne raised his hands in the air, indicating their surroundings with exasperation. His voice strained, as though he was frustrated that their argument had persisted to this detestable point. "Celeste could buy your estate three times over. Good Lord, Trestin. She's a courtesan. She's rich as Croesus. No one has forced her to do anything."

Ash's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't have heard Montborne correctly. "What?"

The marquis sighed. He rubbed his gloved hand over his face, half-turning toward the cliffs. "I promised not to tell you. I feel like the greatest cad. But I can hold my tongue no longer. I beg you, keep your distance. You're too besotted already and I fear..." He looked away. "I don't want you hurt."

" _She 's a courtesan?_"

Montborne nodded, covering his face with his good hand.

" _How long has this been going on?_ "

The marquis' uninjured shoulder shrugged. He didn't look up. "Fifteen years? Twenty? I remember tales of her when I was at university, so sometime when we were lads."

The air whooshed out of Ash. It was another moment before he could draw breath again. _Celeste, a courtesan. A courtesan. Celeste._ For years. Not just one man, one poor decision. But a lifetime of it.

_No one has forced her to do anything._

"Truly?" It came out a whisper.

Montborne nodded into his hand. "They say she's worth more than fifty thousand pounds."

Fifty _thousand_? Ash stared at Montborne in shock. A staggering sum. He could never in his life expect to have that much at hand. And she'd spent a few quid on a rotting pile of limestone? Here? On the fringes of a desolate moor? What could that have possibly been about?

He clamped his hand on the crown of his head, wanting to bury his face as Montborne had done. But he couldn't. His sisters had begun to make their way back, and he must gain control of himself.

Not that it made sense. That she'd gone to such lengths to conceal her identity when she must have known it would be impossible. That she'd ended their kiss--twice--when he might have taken more. That she'd turned to him, burrowing into his embrace like a fragile woman, and grabbed hold of all he could give. Why? What did a notorious harlot expect to find in Brixcombe? Why had she turned to _him_ when she needed help?

He wanted to rest his hands on his knees and take a few heaving breaths. He wanted to rail at the unfairness of it, of living for a few exhilarating moments thinking he could have her for his own, only to learn she wasn't the victim after all. He'd thought he could help her? Protect her? When all this time, she'd been one misstep away from ruining _them_?

He'd been so quick to accept the blame. He'd believed it was _his_ descent into depravity. His tainted blood. And she'd been a whore the entire time. Not just damaged goods, but the succubus he'd feared. A woman who could bring a man to financial ruin in a single night.

She'd _used_ him. Used his sisters to get to him. Endangered their futures so she might work her wiles against him. Why else would she have come to him? Or had _he_ gone to _her_ , like a dog sniffing a bitch in heat? What manner of man lost his heart to a harlot?

A female _ahem_ at their shoulders caused both men to turn. Ash needed another moment to recover, maybe even years to process what he'd just learned.

"Lord Montborne, Trestin," Lucy said with the put-on air she used around company, "I thought you might wish to welcome our guest." She indicated Miss Smythe, who was some yards away, wrapped in a smart-looking coat cut from cherry-dyed wool.

Ash's inhale was sharp and swift. She was beautiful. Her red hair curled beneath her bonnet into a softly sweeping halo. But she was the Serpent and Eve rolled into one. And he'd almost bitten from the forbidden fruit.

He lashed out at his sister for putting him in the untenable position of seeing Miss Smythe now. "I'm speaking with Lord Montborne, Lucy--"

Montborne bent over Lucy's hand. "Miss Lancester, how kind of you to warn us about a gathering of feminine wiles. We men are always at the disadvantage, I fear."

Lucy yanked her hand away. "If you granted us our voice, we would not need to collude." She spun and took her leave as quickly as she'd stolen into their conversation.

"Not exactly as I envisioned our next meeting," Montborne commented under his breath.

Ash made a note to speak with her later. The marquis did deserve a modicum of civility. The four of them were nearly family. It was the reason Montborne had braved Ash's ire to tell him something he most certainly did not want to hear.

Ash's hand clenched. Maybe one day he would find it in himself to apologize to Montborne, too.

"She's older than I remember her," Montborne said offhandedly, "but she's aged rather well."

"I estimate she's over thirty," Ash said at length, recalling the tiny crows' feet that had laughed at him. Surely a woman consumed by depravity ought to look used up. Yet Miss Smythe was quite untarnished, in his estimation. Damn her.

"Not Miss Smythe, you nearsighted oaf. Your sister. I still think of her as the chubby-cheeked sprite who used to toddle behind us when we were boys."

"What do I say to her now?" Ash asked, not really listening to his friend. Did he confront her? Demand she leave before she ruined them all? How could he, with his sisters beside her? And everyone within earshot of the servants?

His gut twisted. If word should get out, their whole family would be ruined. Again. Good God, they'd hosted a _dinner party_ and she'd been a guest of honor! It was almost enough to make him want to beat his forehead against the nearest cliff face.

"You may tell her she's grown into a rather pretty young lady," Montborne replied, turning toward Ash. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "I never thought it would happen. She was a plain-faced child. Really."

Ash tore his gaze from Miss Smythe long enough to regard his friend with confusion. "You want me to tell Miss Smythe you're consenting she is passably attractive?"

Montborne blanched. "Good Lord, Trestin, no. Your _sister_. What the devil has gotten into you?"

Ash didn't have to pretend. He looked at the stones beneath his feet, as though if he looked hard enough, he could stare straight into Hell. "Honestly, Montborne, I haven't the faintest idea."

"HE'S COMING!" LUCY grabbed Celeste's arm and pulled her in a half circle. "Dear Zeus."

Celeste didn't have to ask who the girl meant. The marquis was handsome and dashing and at least nine years Lucy's senior. It was natural she would have developed a _tendre_ for Roman, though she ought to have been sensible enough to resist.

What did concern Celeste was Roman's returned interest. He looked over at their _t ete-a-tete _regularly, and it wasn't because of her. He was intrigued by Lucy. Celeste wasn't sure how she felt about that.

There was no time to decide. He and Trestin were crossing the shore in their direction. "Shh, they're almost here," she said, prying Lucy's fingers from her arm. "Stop making eyes at him."

Lucy latched onto her again, drawing them face-to-face. "Please, I've seen the way my brother looks at you. You must tell me everything you know about entrancing men."

Celeste blinked. Lucy's wide eyes looked back at her in innocence, but Celeste was no longer fooled. Trestin was right. The girl was dauntless.

She pulled Lucy's arm through hers and tried not to look scared. How did she answer Lucy? What on earth did Lucy know about her?

What had she told her _brother_?

"This isn't finished," Celeste said under her breath.

"I should hope not," Lucy replied with a grin.

"Ladies," said Roman after he and Trestin touched their hats, "we thought there must be more to this outing than you standing on one side and we on the other. Rather feels like my first time at Almack's. You may feel assured that is not an experience I wish to repeat."

Lucy sniffed, evidencing she truly had no idea how to entice men. "My lord, you know I've never been to Almack's."

He remained collected, but his blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "I'm certain you will adore it."

Trestin held his hand toward Celeste. "Miss Smythe, would you allow me to row you across the bay?"

As she slid her hand into his, awareness coiled inside her. He grasped her securely and pulled her toward him gently. After last night, she wasn't sure she should be alone with him. She'd felt more vulnerable in Elizabeth's sick chamber than she had in her entire life.

Yet the way he watched her now, those golden eyes molten as he gazed at her, left her breathlessly unable to change her mind.

She turned to see Roman and Lucy regarding her and Trestin with surprise. Roman found his tongue first. "Is that wise?"

Trestin shot him a heated look. His grip on Celeste's hand tightened. "I find myself brimming with questions that can't seem to wait."

What did he mean by that? She tried to pull her hand back but Trestin held firmly. She searched Roman's face for any sense of what Trestin meant, but Roman pressed his lips together.

Faintly, surely too faintly for Lucy or Trestin to see, he shook his head _no_.

Oh, God. He'd told Trestin.

"Can't your questions wait?" Roman asked quietly.

Trestin grimaced, a failed attempt at a smile. "No."

_Oh, God._ She wanted to tear herself from Trestin's grip and run to Roman so she could pound her fists against his chest. _He 'd tried. _He'd meant to keep her secret and he was sorry for whatever happened next. But he hadn't been able to change his opinion of her. She wasn't good enough for his friend.

_He_ wasn't her friend.

Her heart smashed under a carriage wheel. She wasn't sure which was worse: Roman's disloyalty to her or Trestin's ruined opinion of her character.

She wanted to run away but Trestin held her tight. Furthermore, Lucy was here and Delilah watched them all from her perch on the beach. Celeste didn't want to give either girl cause to wonder at the drama unfolding before their eyes. How could it possibly be explained in a way that wouldn't horrify them with the truth?

She'd lose not one but three friends.

"Well, in that case," Roman murmured, "I'm honored to partner Miss Lancester."

Lucy bristled at this dismissive-sounding invitation. Thankfully, however, she didn't argue.

Delilah looked on, happy to be a spectator. The water didn't agree with her constitution, she'd said.

Celeste tried to catch Trestin's eye but he avoided her. Instead he turned to Roman. The men traded a speaking glance, one that left Celeste feeling very much afraid.

Then Trestin released her hand and slapped the marquis on the back, propelling him into action. They walked ahead to secure the boats, Roman at a markedly less enthusiastic pace.

Celeste felt the same. Trestin wanted to talk to her. No good could come of that.

Lucy whirled and clutched Celeste's arm. "This is terrible. He doesn't want to row with me. I feel foolish for even suggesting the outing."

Celeste's gaze didn't stray from Trestin's back. The carriage wheel seemed to be rocking back and forth across her heart. "The only time a woman makes a fool of herself is when she tries to win a man."

Lucy's fingers dug into her arm. "Yes, it's a little late for that. What do I do?"

If Celeste could answer that question in a way appropriate to a gently bred young lady, she wouldn't be in the position she was in today. She pulled Lucy to step ahead. "Row with him. I insist you do. That will leave your mind free to focus on the unfamiliar."

Lucy's brow furrowed. "Such as?"

How to explain to a young lady who'd never played the game? How to instruct her, without telling her everything?

Was it even worth doing, when Roman was unsuitable for her?

"He lives to play the gallant," Celeste said carefully. "He is drawn to women who make him feel like a man. Due to his sore shoulder, his pride will already be fragile. As you will bear the brunt of the rowing, you must allow him to prove himself in other ways." She felt a sense of power as she said this. Roman would never appreciate the irony of a woman using tricks on him, the same types of tricks he used against her sex.

He might have destroyed Lord Trestin's opinion of her, but Celeste wasn't entirely at his mercy.

Her next thought was less empowering and more guilt-ridden. What if her advice worked, and he became enamored of Lucy? Would he suffer, knowing Lord Trestin would never allow a penniless reprobate to court his sister?

Did it matter if he suffered? Perhaps he would come to appreciate how it felt to be _not quite worthy_ of everyone else.

She had precisely two friends right now. One clung to her arm, hanging on her every word. The other sat on the beach. Celeste patted Lucy's hand. "I suspect with your...independence, you've never truly captured his attention."

Lucy looked down her nose. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Of course you are. As am I. That is not the point. Nobody, _nobody,_ can make a man feel as a woman can. This is your only task, to make him feel as nobody but a woman can. Do you understand?"

Lucy nodded.

But how could she understand?

Then she whispered, "I am desperate for him."

Celeste stopped mid-step. "He should be desperate for you. He may have your smiles, your laughs, the fleeting touch of your hand. But not you. A man measures a woman by how easily he believes he can have her. There is no challenge in a woman who surrenders her only asset."

She had a sickening feeling she was about to learn just how true that was.

Lucy gazed toward the men securing the boats. "My smile? He has never taken notice of it before."

Celeste watched Trestin's muscles bunch as he coiled a thick length of rope. "Likely true. Roman prefers the company of women who are..." She couldn't finish. Surely Trestin wouldn't approve of this conversation.

"Freer. I know." Lucy lowered her voice. "I would go to him tonight, if he would have me."

That settled it. Celeste must help, if only to keep Lucy from doing something rash. "It should be he who risks all, not you. Marriage must be your asking price. Else he isn't the one."

Lucy's gaze trailed from the beach. "Do you really believe that, Miss Smythe? Do you really think a man capable of putting a woman first, above his own needs and desires?"

Celeste regarded her young friend mutely. She'd never fallen in love, herself. The situation she described was simply something that must be true. In her deepest, most fragile place, it had to be true, because if love was a myth and there was only sex, then she'd seen everything there was to see. That journey had left her an empty, cold shell of a person.

But even if there was no such thing as love, if it was nothing more than a figment of her imagination, at least she must convince Lucy to keep her virtue intact.

And so, with a reflexive glance at Lord Trestin, Celeste replied, "A very good man would."

"Lucy!" Trestin called from down the beach. The sun cast his chiseled face in shadow, but Celeste could see his eyebrows were drawn together in disapproval. He indicated Roman standing knee-deep in the bay waiting to help Lucy into the boat.

"We aren't finished," Lucy hissed. She grabbed Celeste's arm and dragged her across the shore.

They diverged at the water, Lucy to Roman's boat and Celeste to Lord Trestin's. She wasn't even in the boat yet and she already felt nauseated.

Lord Trestin turned to her. "Would you like me to carry you?"

The thought of being that close to him while he was angry with her sped her pulse. She nodded anyway, for she had no other way of getting into the boat. He stepped toward her. His body blocked the wind for a moment, then he bent and lifted her into his arms. She clung to him as he waded into the bay. When he set her in the vessel and went to the rear, she felt the chill of the sea air again.

He lowered his weight across from hers and paid no heed to the water pooling off his boots into the bottom of the boat. Her hand flew to her belly as if to quiet it, but her growing dread couldn't be comforted from outside.

He took up the oars, flexed his arms a few times to limber up, and pushed off the beach. Her stomach continued to churn as the boat skittered across the surf. Lord Trestin's movements were too jerky for a leisurely row. He meant to get them as far away from Lucy and Roman as quickly as he could make it possible.

Celeste imprinted his handsome, tense face on her heart as his upper arms strained against the force of the waves. He wasn't near enough to be considered improper, but their knees almost touched in the small craft. She could catch his scent drifting on the breeze. If only it weren't all about to come crashing down. If only...

She closed her eyes, tilting her face to the sun. Wind whipped through her hair and tugged at her pins. She wanted to stay here, just like this. Forever.

When she opened her eyes, it was to see him regarding her. She gripped her hands together. A muscle twitched at his jaw. A very proper cravat concealed the darkened hollows of his throat, and her mind turned briefly to the previous day. She remembered the feel of his chest, hard beneath her hands. The indentation of his naked collarbone. She raised her gaze higher, admiring his burnished skin and the honey-gold of his eyes. Surely she would want this memory later.

His eyes slowly became angry. Accusing.

And she would just as assuredly want to forget what was to come next.

**Chapter 15**

****

SHE TRIED TO keep her voice even. "Is aught amiss, my lord?"

His gaze fixed on a point behind her head. His muscles sent them gliding effortlessly along the waves. She wasn't fooled. Emotion powered the oars, not brute strength.

"My lord?" she tried again.

After sending the skiff several yards ahead of Roman's, Trestin stopped rowing. The boat continued to jet over the roughening sea. "It seems we always have more to talk about, Miss Smythe. I think we ought to start at the beginning, don't you?"

She nodded mutely, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the sudden chill.

"My father was a whoremonger. Did you know that?"

The knowledge that he was somehow blaming her crept along her spine. She didn't nod, but he didn't need her to acknowledge his question.

"Mother put a bullet through his back, then took her own life. I've always thought that incredibly selfish of her. With her dead, she left me no one to hate. Because my deplorable father was dead, too, Miss Smythe. They were both dead."

Celeste's lips parted, but she had no comforting words to offer. She knew the story. Had heard it told over glasses of wine and slipped between dance sets. Every Cyprian knew of Adam Lancester, their cherished reprobate. Indiscriminate to a fault.

As with every scandal, it had eventually been replaced by a new _on dit._ Celeste had known him only by association. She hadn't been troubled by his death, or his fade away.

Yet Trestin hadn't forgotten. He regarded her with hard, angry eyes. "Unfortunately, my loathing did not die with him."

"I'm sorry," was all she could say. Her throat was thick, her mouth dry. She had never imagined she'd feel personally responsible for Adam Lancester's death. As though she were accountable for the actions of her kind.

Trestin pulled hard against the oars, sending them skimming over the bay. "I see we understand each other now."

Celeste watched the water churn blankly. It was easy to envision the fallout such horrendous news had caused him, and it didn't take too much to comprehend this was why Lucy had never married. Celeste was well-acquainted with the ways of the _ton_. Their entire family had been ruined. Perhaps still was.

"Sometimes I think I made a mistake keeping Lucy home," Trestin said, as if reading her mind. He watched her with an intensity that made her lungs squeeze hard. "I ought to have braved it out. I was too young to know that most men have mistresses and it was simply my father's bad fortune to have a wife with good aim."

Celeste jerked her gaze away. How bitter he was. She wanted to apologize for his hurt, explain everything she'd done in her life was for a reason. Fall in his arms and sob until he _knew_ why she'd kissed him. Defend her deception, her past, her loneliness. Her impossible wish that...he would love her.

"I'd come to regard you highly," Trestin said roughly. Harshly. She looked up in confusion. Surely she hadn't heard him correctly.

His eyes were heated. "You were a good little temptress, Celeste. I had no idea what I was up against."

She gripped her hands together lest she slap him. "Don't say such things."

"Don't play coy. That only makes it worse."

He didn't know what he was saying; he was lashing out at her. He _wanted_ to hurt her. She clutched her cloak tightly to her breast. Was _this_ love?

Celeste's heart grew heavy until it sank to the bottom of her belly. Lord Trestin would never love her. She represented everything he loathed in a woman, every sin he'd ever condemned. And was he wrong?

Roman was right. Trestin did loathe his attraction to her. In his mind, she was no better than the strumpets who had seduced his father and forced his mother to unspeakable acts.

"I can't believe it," he said.

She looked up at the sound of his indecision.

He was watching her with a warring, crestfallen expression. "Good God, Celeste. You were supposed to slap me. Instead you look--your eyes--"

A large wave smacked the boat. The craft listed right. Her shriek was choked by fear. She leaned left, praying they did not overturn.

Lord Trestin leaned forward and grasped her arms. His knee struck the bottom planks as he came out of his seat. Suddenly, he loomed over her. The oars fell into the bay. He ignored them. The plane of his chest, covered in fine white lawn and a green striped waistcoat, hovered inches above the thrust of her cleavage. Her silent scream stuck in her throat.

Slowly, he settled his left hand on the hull to her right. Her heart was in her throat, but it wasn't their near miss that caused it to _knock knock knock_. Gently, he raised his hand. She closed her eyes as his warm fingers slid across her lashes. His thumb paused briefly at the soft indentation where he dabbed her tear away.

A hot rush of longing washed over her. His fingers continued their exploration, tracing her hairline just under her bonnet. They came to the whorl of her ear and stopped just beneath the velvet of her lobe. But he didn't kiss her, even when his eyes closed and his lips parted.

Then the air went cool.

The emotions she'd freed over the last few weeks crawled back into their tiny box. She barely knew him. He reviled her. They had nothing more to say to one another, for she wanted to be loved. She wanted to be _worthy._

She could never be worthy in his eyes. She was like a wineglass that had been slammed against the cobblestones. Useless, now that she was cracked into a thousand pieces. A bastard, a whore, and a liar. She wasn't proud of any of it. But at least she'd proved time and time again that she could pick up the pieces and take care of herself. For there'd never been anyone in her life to do it for her.

There were people she must be strong for now. Elizabeth, and the baby. She would survive this.

She must. For their sakes.

****

WHENEVER A KNOCK sounded at the door, Celeste jumped. No matter how firmly she told herself he'd never seek her out to apologize, she couldn't convince herself that Lord Trestin was truly gone.

Yet he never came.

After a week of existing in a state of half-waiting, half-mourning, Captain Nicholas Finn strode into their parlor as though he'd purchased the place himself. "Beth! Beth! Where is my little lad?"

Celeste clutched the vase she'd been about to set on the mantel. The pride in Captain Finn's voice lanced her tattered heart, for her lonely childhood had been buried, not forgotten.

Slowly, Elizabeth tugged her gaze from the miracle in her arms to the man standing before her. In the last week, she'd undergone a remarkable transformation. Her gray eyes glowed with new hope. Her face appeared relaxed. Every morning, she awoke looking less the jaded courtesan and more like a mother.

Celeste was ever grateful that her new situation agreed with her.

The instant Elizabeth saw her former protector, however, her whole body arched toward him. Her lips parted in a demure smile. "Nicholas, how kind of you to come all the way here just to see me."

By the possessive way his gaze trained on his son, it was clear his journey hadn't been undertaken in search of his erstwhile paramour. He hovered over the baby, causing Celeste to bristle with suspicion. Few men took interest in their by-blows.

Her own father had pretended she didn't exist. She remembered too well the sensation of realizing she was nothing but the fallout from her parents' struggle for power, a bid by her mother to keep a lover who no longer desired her. Celeste recalled the day she'd learned her mother had died, and clearer yet, the hour the annuities settled on Maggie by her many paramours had suddenly stopped. There'd been no plan for Celeste. No father. No family. She'd been left alone, young and frightened and penniless.

Fortunately, Celeste hadn't been innocent of the ways a woman might support herself. This endeavor to settle in Brixcombe had been an attempt to keep Elizabeth and her child from the same fate, a spiral of prostitution and broken families. Ultimately, however, Celeste could do nothing if Captain Finn took an interest in his son. As the boy's father, he had every right to treat the child as he liked.

He scooped Oliver up and tucked him into the crook of his arm. "Well, good day, Jonathan. You're a stocky one, aren't you? Just like your papa was."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed.

Celeste's heart ached for her friend. No matter how often she'd tried to warn Elizabeth that a babe wouldn't reignite the captain's interest in her, she'd refused to listen. Celeste hated seeing she had been right.

"His name is Oliver," Elizabeth corrected. "The name of all firstborn sons in my family."

The captain turned toward the window, away from Elizabeth. His index finger stroked Oliver's pale, velvet cheek. "He'll be christened Jonathan Thomas, after my grandfather. Seeing as how my wife appears unable to bear an heir, there is no reason to preserve the honor."

Celeste's shoulders drew back. Her fingers tightened around the vase. This was the man Elizabeth had decided to love. This was the father of her child.

Then again, Celeste was just as impractical when it came to Lord Trestin. He would never love her, either. Why did the heart refuse to listen to reason?

"We'll depart early tomorrow," the captain announced without looking up. "Are you able to travel?"

Celeste caught Elizabeth's eye. _No!_ She shouldn't go with him, but more importantly, she could endanger herself by traveling too soon.

"Tomorrow would be a bit early yet," Elizabeth demurred. Her empty arms rocked without her seeming to realize she did so. As if cuddling her son were already ingrained in her. "I'm still a bit delicate."

Captain Finn made an incredulous noise without looking up from the babe. "The last thing you are, Beth, is delicate."

_Don 't go. Please._ But Celeste had said all she could, and could only watch helplessly.

"Monday, then," he said with finality. "That will allow your maid time enough to gather your things. I'll send a note to my man forthwith. You'll require larger apartments, and a more substantial income."

_Please, don 't let him do this to you_, Celeste pleaded silently. But she knew she'd lost. For all that Elizabeth's eyes dimmed at his clipped instructions, she continued to watch him parade about the parlor with hopeful longing.

He was too absorbed in his son to notice.

Celeste's heart broke for her. When would she see that he was done with her? She'd provided him the son he desired, the closest he believed he would get to an heir, but it hadn't made him love her. They hadn't been on the best of terms when it had been just the two of them. A baby might even make things worse, as it had done for Celeste's mother.

Still, as Celeste waved to the departing carriage, she wished with all her heart that Elizabeth would find a happy situation in London. Sadly, she couldn't see how. The captain was married. How perfect could it be? No matter how much he doted on Oliver, Nicholas Finn would never be entirely theirs.

A gnawing ache had started in Celeste's bosom with the pending arrival of Oliver. It had filled halfway when she'd begun to befriend Lord Trestin. Now she felt an empty hollow watching Elizabeth's carriage trundle down the road.

What would having a man completely--having his heart, his life, his children--be like? How glorious would it feel to know he was giving himself to her and her alone?

For the first time, Celeste saw a reason to marry. Just as certainly, she knew she would never have that opportunity.

What manner of man married a whore?

**Chapter 16**

__

MORNING WAS JUST greeting London as Celeste draped a napkin over her uneaten breakfast plate. She toyed with the edge of her serviette, a habit she'd developed in the last weeks since she'd left Brixcombe. She missed Lucy and Delilah, Elizabeth and the babe. She missed the wild moors that only Trestin could tame. And she missed him. Days had passed, but her heart hadn't quite caught up. She knew she'd been naive to think she could ever belong in Brixcombe. Only London, with all its depravity, welcomed her kind.

Except she did not wish to be her kind anymore.

Gordo, her Italian brute of a butler, stalked into the morning room bearing her newspaper and the folded city map she'd spent the last few days poring over. If she wasn't entertaining, she could make do in a much simpler environment than this terraced house. A place that didn't scream her trade by its very design.

Her manservant left without a word. She spread the map across the table and opened _The Times,_ hopeful just the right house would be listed today. Regrettably, a quick look turned up nothing new.

When Gordo returned an hour later, she was staring out of a window. "Nothing?" he asked, the single word par for his quality of conversation to date.

She shook her head. "We must stay here for now, at least."

He didn't reply, but she saw the question in his eyes. Why not take another lover in the meantime? She wasn't dead yet.

Her lips curved at the thought of trying to explain her change of heart to her sullen butler. "It isn't something I expect you'd understand."

He grunted. "Miss Lancester's here."

Celeste rose from her chair. "What?"

"In the drawing room."

"Why didn't you say so?" But she didn't wait for him to answer what was essentially a rhetorical question. Gordo's conversational skills left something to be desired. His strong arm, on the other hand, had proved invaluable over the years.

She removed her spectacles and hurried to the drawing room at the front of the house. Stopping just outside the door, she gathered her wits. Why on earth would Lucy be here? How had the girl found her? Was _he_ here?

What would she do if he were?

Celeste peeked in. Lucy looked virginal in a prim white day dress. She sat on the edge of one of Celeste's red couches and looked at her surroundings with interest. Vibrant yellow walls and crimson hangings decorated the room, broken here and there by wrought iron frames and a painting of a Spanish vista.

Lucy appeared curious rather than anxious. A quick once-over confirmed Trestin hadn't accompanied her. Celeste's sigh was a mixture of relief and disappointment.

The young lady stood as Celeste entered. "Miss Smythe! I mean, Miss Gray."

Celeste flinched. Her real name sounded foreign coming from Lucy.

"Miss Lancester," she returned to the woman, gathering her wits. "I am pleasantly surprised to see you, but surely you shouldn't be here."

_And he 'd been angry before..._

"He'll never know." Lucy clasped Celeste's hands. Without warning, she pulled Celeste in for a quick hug. "It's so nice to see you again."

Surprised by the girl's spontaneous affection, Celeste's arms dangled limply at her sides. She _was_ happy to see Lucy again. If only she could withstand the sharp pain of being this close to Trestin.

She stepped out of Miss Lancester's embrace and drew the young lady onto the sofa. "It's wonderful to see you, too." After a pause in which Celeste made a selfish decision to allow Lucy to stay, if only for a few minutes, she asked, "How is your Season faring?"

Lucy pulled a face. "Not _my_ Season, you know. Trestin is the one on the Marriage Mart, though he prefers to pretend it's Delilah and me. Not that Delilah is husband-hunting, either. My dear sister cannot stop pining for Mr. Conley. She's quite withdrawn."

"Poor Trestin," Celeste murmured before she could stop herself.

Lucy laughed. "Poor me! Trestin is a hound with a bone. He has some misguided opinion I would make the perfect cleric's wife. Where he got that notion, I have no idea. I detest the church. The more left unsaid on that the better, though I vow _you_ will not judge me for it." She leaned forward, squeezing Celeste's hands. "There are only two things I want in this life and I know you can help me with one. Teach me how to seduce Roman Alexander."

Celeste couldn't have been more shocked. "Your brother would kill me!"

"He'll never know. Why would I tell him?" Lucy's satisfied smile sent chills up Celeste's spine. "I have a dream of starting a girls' school, you know. All very proper. This shall be my last hurrah. I trust you can do this, Miss Gray."

Celeste stared, dumbfounded. She should never have encouraged Lucy in his direction. Why had she been so callous with the girl's feelings?

Lucy released Celeste's hands and rose. Her light steps paced the carpet as she calmly took in the naked statuary and writhing ironwork decorating the room like an Italian palazzo. "You worked magic for me that day on the shore," she said. "He'd never spared me a glance before and hasn't since. Oh, I know I'm not the type to catch his eye, but that's where you come in. You were friends once, weren't you? Until he didn't approve of your interest in my brother. Well, of course he didn't. You're a courtesan."

Celeste's head spun. "How old are you again?"

Lucy laughed again and suddenly Celeste could see her as an alluring, black-haired minx. It would take only the right clothing, the right tilt of her chin and a come-hither glance--"Absolutely not," Celeste said. "You're too young, too innocent, and you have far too bright of a future ahead of you. I won't usher your ruination."

"I'm four and twenty. Firmly on the shelf. Who will ever know I seduced my brother's best friend?"

"Everyone!"

Lucy _tsk_ ed. "Come now, Roman isn't going to shout it out for all and sundry. That's the fastest way to the parson's trap. He's certainly not going to tell my brother. Trestin is a crack shot. It will be a secret only the three of us know."

"A ridiculously innocent notion," Celeste said sharply. "Men talk. Especially him. Look how well he kept my secret."

A gleam came into Lucy's eyes. "I'm well aware Roman is a horrible gossip. But I promise you, he will not want to risk it."

Celeste wracked her brain for a logical argument. Lucy seemed to have thought this through, making it more serious than a whim. "Much can be deduced from very little," Celeste said. She rose and approached her. "How exactly did you find me?"

Lucy folded her hands before her in a picture of gentility. "A lady never reveals her sources." Long lashes lowered demurely. A tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips.

Celeste might have been intrigued if the situation weren't so appalling. The girl was a born flirt. She had no idea of the extent of her talent. Even Celeste was only just realizing it, and she was a trained professional. "The answer is no."

"Oh, very well." Lucy raised her linked hands to her bosom and spun to face the window. "If you must know, I overheard Trestin and Roman arguing that day on the shore. The pieces came together. Our father was a profligate, as I'm sure you're aware. Trestin loathes any reminder of Father and that includes his feelings for you. I'm afraid he doesn't understand love, Miss Gray, but he will."

She sighed. "For the last seven years, he's kept the concept pure and perfect in his heart, believing that if my parents had loved each other with a pure, perfect innocence, Father would never have had mistresses and Mother would never have shot him for it. But they did love each other. I remember them clearly." Her pale arms wrapped around herself as she remained before the window.

She turned. "I apologize for what I'm about to say, Miss Gray, but you need to understand why I came. After witnessing my brother's melancholy, I'm even more adamant to have a night in Roman's arms. I want to _live._ " She sighed again. "I fear I will never have another chance."

Celeste latched onto Lucy's slip. "Trestin is hurting?"

Lucy's expression softened. "Not anymore. I am sorry about that."

Celeste glanced away.

Lucy approached her and gave her hand a squeeze. "Won't you help me?"

"How can I? You wish to seduce my friend. I cannot be a part of that."

"It is nothing less than he deserves." Lucy sounded vehement.

Celeste supposed she ought to feel the same. It was silly of her to defend a man who'd made so little of her loyalty. But did he deserve to be used? Did anyone?

Celeste pulled her hand to her belly and walked to the window. The day was bright but her thoughts were not. Roman had betrayed her confidence. He'd actively dissuaded Trestin from pursuing her. But did that make him wrong? Was he at fault, or had he only been protecting Trestin from a terrible mistake?

She couldn't discount the many years he'd been her friend.

"What if the other young ladies were just as calculating as you're being? Perhaps he hasn't ruined anyone at all. Rumors are often unfounded." She'd never believed the accusers herself, no matter what evidence the young ladies claimed existed. The Roman she knew was too big-hearted to prey on innocents.

Then again, she had wanted to believe he cared about her enough to keep her secret.

"I don't know for sure he's deflowered any virgins," Lucy admitted, "but I'm certain he's raised expectations only to dash them at the last minute. He falls in and out of love like he changes cravats." She paused. "Roman has a bundle of cravats."

Celeste wasn't swayed, not yet. Ruining an innocent practically made her a procuress. She turned to regard the young lady who'd seemingly grown into an indomitable woman in the last few moments. "You're sure you have no use for your maidenhead? An innocent like you, with a dowry and a brother determined to see you wed?"

Lucy shrugged. "Trestin loves me, really, he does, but if he knew anything about me he'd help me charter a school instead of pressing me to marry. The trouble is, I'm in love with a man who would make a terrible husband, and yet I don't want to marry anyone else." She looked up, eyes alight with certainty. "I will have him once, because I cannot bear not to have him at all. It shall have to be enough for a lifetime."

Celeste faltered. If she had known her moment at the tree with Trestin would be their last together, would she have stopped him? Or would she have allowed him to touch her, to make her _feel_?

Lucy waited impatiently behind her, but Celeste wouldn't be rushed. At last she conceded she was just as foolish and impetuous as Lucy. For if she could have that afternoon over again, she would make love to him beneath the canopy, and keep a bottled, precious memory for herself.

"I'll teach you how to draw Roman's interest if you'll promise two things," Celeste heard herself say. She turned to find Lucy's eyes shining with excitement.

"Anything, Miss Gray. Name it and it's done."

Celeste raised her index finger to count off her stipulations. "You will seduce only Roman."

Lucy nodded eagerly. "I want no other man in my bed."

Celeste smiled wanly. Her life hadn't turned out as planned, but there was still time. A girls' school was the perfect way to give back. A way she could make a difference in the lives of others, and perhaps even come to value herself.

Decided, Celeste held up a second finger. "Two: You must allow me to be your school's anonymous benefactress. I want to sponsor ten charity girls each year in addition to shouldering the costs we cannot cover with the paying girls' tuition." When Lucy's mouth opened to argue, Celeste pressed, "I insist."

"I'D LIKE THE school to be established by the end of the Season," Lucy said as they abandoned the drawing room for Celeste's study. "That way, Trestin cannot twist my arm and wrangle another Season out of me."

"It will require time to go through the details," Celeste cautioned, opening the door to the closeted room that served as her private sanctuary. Though she knew nothing about educational institutions, she knew how to run a business. One did not jump into a risky endeavor without solid planning.

She went to a wall of shelves and browsed her map collection, searching for Bath. Though she'd never been much of a reader, she did love to travel.

"Have you been to all these places?" Lucy plucked a book of navigational maps from the shelf and let it fall open. "Hmm, I think not, unless you were a pirate at one time."

"I haven't seen half the places I'd like, but yes, most of these I've collected along the way." _There._ A neighborhood map of Bath she'd purchased last year. She pried it from between two larger books and took it to her desk. "The last time I counted, I've only been to six countries."

"My goodness! And you came to our little town, too. What could possibly have brought you there?"

Celeste slid into her chair and opened the map book across her desk. She didn't want to talk about Elizabeth. She hadn't seen her friend in the three weeks since she'd returned to London, for she hadn't determined how to casually look in on the situation when she wanted so much to intervene.

"I'd rather not divulge the reason. Rarely do I act without gain in mind and that is all that needs to be said. You should know what manner of woman you've aligned yourself with."

Lucy turned to her. "Someone exactly like myself?"

Touche. Celeste smiled to herself. "Very well then, Miss Lancester--"

"Please, call me Lucy." At Celeste's skeptical look, she hastened to add, "We are partners now, you and I."

Celeste frowned at the page before her. It felt stolen, calling his sister by her given name. It was one thing to do it in the privacy of her own mind, and another to say it aloud. "Lucy, then."

She turned the page, not really seeing it. If Trestin discovered their plot, he would despise her forever.

Not that she was on friendly terms with him now. She set the book aside. "Lucy, I have one more condition. I will handle the financial part of this arrangement, and you must have a care with your reputation. Your character is the critical element of this scheme and it is on tenterhooks as it is, given the scandal in your parents' past. Without students we have no income."

Lucy waved away Celeste's concern. "Fair enough."

Only the barest agreement, but it would have to do. If she pressed harder, she might send the girl careening into trouble. Somewhat mollified, Celeste returned to the business end of it. "Now, did you have a location in mind for the school?"

For the next hour they debated the merits of Bath over Brighton. When Gordo summoned them to lunch, Celeste was surprised at the time. "Won't Trestin be looking for you?"

"Not until it's time to go calling." Lucy continued to scratch out a list of expenses and actions they needed to consider before approaching other investors. "Besides, he's at Jackson's now. He won't notice my absence for another few hours."

Gentleman Jackson's? The boxing establishment? Celeste couldn't have been more surprised if Lucy had said he was on the moon. She tried not to wonder at his sudden interest in pugilism. Though really, what did she know of him? Perhaps he'd always been a pugilist.

She forced herself to concentrate on Lucy, instead of Lucy's brother. It was decided they would appeal to Society matrons first. Both women liked the ring of a girls' school led by an all-female board. Ending on a flourish, Lucy looked up. Her expression was all seriousness. "Do you think we've done enough honest work for the day? I'd like to begin my introduction to the ways of the demimonde, if you please."

Celeste blinked. "You needn't be a courtesan to seduce Roman." Surely she hadn't agreed to that level of instruction.

"Everyone knows he prefers the company of Cyprians," Lucy replied practically, without the least blushing. "It's where he goes after the proper balls have concluded."

That was, unfortunately, very true. Roman did engage himself with the fast set, and the fallen set.

Celeste's hesitation seemed to be all Lucy needed. "I want to know everything!" she said, her brown eyes shining.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Lucy sat up straighter, which didn't help at all. She was too prim to despoil when she looked like a lady. "Perhaps if we had wine..." she hinted, completely extinguishing the impression.

Even Celeste was shocked. "At one o'clock?"

Lucy's brows rose inquiringly. "Surely it can only help?"

It certainly wouldn't hurt. Besides, Celeste could probably stand a glass, herself. This was all happening so quickly.

After calling for Gordo, she beckoned to her protegee. If they were going to set the mood, the best place to do it was in her receiving room. Easily the most shocking room in her terraced house, if not this side of St. James.

She stopped a few steps past the threshold and surveyed her infamous atrium with new eyes. She'd had it done several years ago when business was good. Floor-to-ceiling red satin covered three of the four walls. The ceiling soared past a second-floor gallery. Above stairs, the gallery was part of a hallway, but the railing was clearly meant for voyeurs. Several chairs and a bowl of opera glasses were visible behind the balustrade.

"Oh, my," Lucy said, twirling to see everything at once. "Oh, my, oh, my. This is..." Wordlessly, she backed into a chair. Feeling for it with one hand, she sat. "Oh, my."

It was little wonder the young woman was overcome. For the last few years Celeste had felt pride whenever she'd entered this room. Not many courtesans could afford the likes of it. Today she merely felt responsible for Lucy, and embarrassed she'd taken her craft so far that she'd committed thousands of pounds to decorating an area large enough to instruct a dozen girls.

Goodness, if her terraced house weren't already notorious, she might have housed the school here.

But it _was_ notorious, and so was she. She must absent herself from the public part of their planning. Her past was haunting. She had only to look around to be reminded of it. Naked deities entangled themselves with voluptuous nymphs in a classically-drawn mural extending the height and width of the wall. Though _she_ had more modern sensibilities, gentlemen appreciated a taste of refinement about their depravity.

The room was otherwise sparely decorated. A coffee-colored fainting couch was arranged in a corner, and there was the chair Lucy had fallen into, but most of the seating was in the form of luxurious pillows and feather-ticked mattresses covered in azure silk strewn on the floor. Plush Persian carpets added to the ambiance, though functionally, they were more for keeping bare bottoms warm.

"She's beautiful." Lucy rose again to inspect a naked Greek marble standing in the corner.

Celeste felt a flutter of pride. It was her favorite piece, though she couldn't put her finger on why. The marble faced the wall, displaying a curve of backside and silhouette of breast. Something about the way the subject looked over her shoulder, daring the viewer to follow, had seemed perfect for this room.

Gordo arrived. He set the tray on a mattress and excused himself. He was immune to this room, having served her and her guests in it more nights than either of them could remember.

She sat on the mattress and showed Lucy how to arrange their skirts so only a hint of ankle was bared. Nothing that would draw censure, but enough to incite a man's attention.

"Do you really wish to leave all this behind?" Lucy's large brown eyes remained wide, but she'd stopped staring. Now she was looking at Celeste as though _she_ were the oddity.

"I'm not sure I can. I'm not sure I want to. I'm not sure of anything except that something must change." She downed her wine to occupy both her hands and her mouth. Could they really speak of such things? Her past, her future?

She wouldn't dwell on whether she could or couldn't, should or shouldn't. Instead, she would give the young woman what she wanted. Intimacy. "I'm old," Celeste declared, waving her hand to indicate the room. "Too old for this."

Lucy stopped sawing at a block of hard cheese and looked up. "Please do not say such hideous things. If you're old, then I'm very nearly old, and where does that leave us?"

Celeste stole a slice from Lucy's cheese pile and nibbled on it. "I'm not sure. Can a former courtesan become a spinster?"

"Is there a clause saying spinsters must be virgins?"

"Perhaps those are old maids." Celeste smiled as she plucked another triangle of cheddar.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that." Lucy poured more wine into both their glasses. "Now, you're too old to attract a man? Bosh. My brother fell head over heels for you the minute he saw you."

The sharp cheese turned to dust in Celeste's mouth. She swallowed and reached for her wine, feigning nonchalance. "Rusticating in the country limited his options. He wouldn't have looked twice at me in London."

Lucy waved her objection away. "Younger men enjoy older women. Roman kept a mistress twice his age when he was twenty."

The girl was far too aware of the marquis. But Celeste wouldn't rebuke her. "Perhaps it's me. Perhaps I am simply not attracted to young men anymore."

"Trestin is younger."

Celeste smiled wryly. "Your astuteness is wearing." She set down her wine and brushed crumbs of cheese from her skirt. "If I don't occupy you one way, you'll think of other ways to entertain yourself. Why don't we try something simple? Here, finish up, and we will use the mirror."

"But I don't see a mirror--Oh."

Celeste rose to her knees and tugged a creamy satin sheet off a mattress-sized mirror propped against the wall. It fell away in a _whoosh_ of crumpled fabric. The entire room was visible in reflection, a fact of which Celeste was well aware.

She drew Lucy onto her knees and paused, allowing the young woman time to absorb her reflection. Then she began.

"Lesson one: Unless you have overly displayed your bosom, a man looks at your face first. Then his gaze travels downward. After he has perused you once, he does so again, this time in reverse. For this reason a woman must be sure her entire body is ready for a man at all times. If only one asset is to his liking, he will generally dismiss the woman. But a woman with many appealing characteristics will receive more notice. It is the sum, rather than the parts, which attracts him."

"I have a plain face." Lucy didn't shy away or frame it in an accusing way. It was a simple statement of truth.

"No woman is entirely plain or entirely beautiful. It is the confidence with which you hold yourself that affects how others see you."

Lucy considered that. "You're saying I have the ability to make myself beautiful?"

The French had learned this lesson centuries ago. They lived by it. On this side of the Channel, only the demimonde seemed aware that beauty was more than features. Lucy would need more convincing.

Celeste leaned toward her ear. "Have you ever been kissed?"

Lucy's eyes looked downward and a knowing smile crept across her lips. "Yes."

Celeste hid her surprise. Surely Trestin didn't know. She cupped Lucy's elbows and lowered her voice. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes."

"Was he gentle?"

Lucy half laughed, half sighed. "No."

Celeste laughed a low, courtesan's laugh. "Thank goodness." She brought her face even closer to Lucy's and whispered directly in her ear. "Did he make you feel wanted?"

"Y-yes."

"Desired?"

Lucy sighed.

"Look at yourself."

Lucy did, slowly. She stared at her reflection. "I look drugged."

"No, inviting. See how your eyes are heavy? Your lips are full and slightly parted. You have a rosy glow."

Lucy pursed her lips in response. She blinked when she appeared poised for a kiss instead of dubious. "Are you sure you didn't apply cosmetics while my eyes were closed?"

Celeste laughed again. She tugged a few tendrils from Lucy's coiffure and arranged them softly around her face. "A man lives to see a woman's pleasure. When he believes he can please her, he is attracted. When she laughs, he believes it is because he made her laugh. To attract Roman, you must be open to the pleasure he can bring you. Then you will be beautiful to him."

"But I will not _be_ beautiful."

"What is beauty? The arrangement of certain facial features in a particular order? No, it is a perception. When you feel beautiful, when you are open to beauty, others will find you beautiful."

"And smart," Lucy added cheekily.

Celeste felt her heart expand as she watched Lucy's confidence blossom. It was heady to be able to inspire another person in so few words. "We should definitely add 'humble' to the list."

Lucy twisted to look at her. "Is that it, then? All I must do is walk around pretending I've just been kissed and men will flock to me?"

"No, but it's a good first step. Kissing can give a woman confidence, so long as she is the one in control. Later, I will teach you about that. For now, try this: As you go about your day, remember how it felt to be desired by your gentleman. Imagine all the men you meet today feel the same way about you. You need not say anything different. Simply pretend you are allowing each man the honor of a moment of your time, and they will treat you differently."

"I truly need not change?" It might have been her imagination, but Celeste thought Lucy held herself straighter.

"No."

Lucy's glowing face was full of infectious excitement. "What is lesson two?"

**Chapter 17**

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"MRS. KENWORTH ISN'T the type one marries," Montborne drawled, sidling up beside Ash at Lady Melbourne's ball. "An unfortunate fact Mr. Kenworth discovered too late. But I'll assume the resolve on your face means you already knew that."

Ash kept his eyes locked on the assembly. He was a hawk surveying a field overrunning with mice. Mice scampering about with no cover.

Very little cover, anyway. Miss Smythe's plunging decolletage at his sister's dinner party was beginning to seem tame.

Damn it. He wasn't going to think about Miss Smythe. Especially not her decolletage.

The marquis shifted to stand at Ash's shoulder, balancing a plate on his arm while he juggled a glass of wine to his lips. He was too light in the pockets to skip lavish feasts like the one buckling the sideboard here.

After taking a draught, he gestured with his wineglass to indicate the assembly. Or perhaps to ask the greater question, _What the devil are you doing?_

Ash didn't take his eyes from the field. The mice were plump tonight, and up to mischief. "Everyone knows Mrs. Kenworth is fast. But I thank you for your professional opinion."

"It doesn't take an expert. She wears her prowess like a badge. Which begs the question, why did you just dance with her?" Montborne waved a wedge of sandwich in her direction.

Ash's patience wore thin. "I thought you wanted me to dance."

"With your sister, yes. Or with your other sister, or with one of their wallflower friends. This is a perfectly respectable ball and you're treating it like a brothel."

"I've done nothing inappropriate." It was London. The city was a cesspit. Even the reputable establishments brimmed with immoral women...and the men who desired them.

"No? Not with Mrs. Beckensdale at the theater," the marquis mused, "or Mrs. Palmer at the opera? Lady Cresswell is said to have been spurred into a darkened garden by none other than the unimpeachable Lord Trestin. But I'm glad to know you no longer consider that sort of behavior inappropriate. Saves me a lot of time asking for forgiveness from you."

Montborne pushed his empty plate into Ash's hand so as to be better able to flourish both the wineglass and the sandwich. "For someone as experienced as I, it isn't a matter of great deduction to conclude you're looking for a lover in the most clod-headed way possible."

"Or perhaps the company I keep has gone stale." Ash raised a mocking eyebrow toward his friend.

_" Cockstand."_ Montborne grinned when Ash winced. "See? I'm never dull. And no matter how much you wish it otherwise, _you_ are not the kind to engage in vulgarity."

The marquis was enjoying himself a little too much. Ash handed the plate back. "All that your crass language proves is that our hostess made a grievous mistake in issuing you an invitation."

"And that is why I like you. A refreshing change from my devil-may-care accomplices. Tell me, how _is_ the mistress hunt going? Or are you merely searching for tonight's _affaire_?"

"What I do is none of your concern." Ash let another skimpily-dressed woman catch his eye as she danced by. Not even a tightening in his groin. Damn it. Just because she was too thin and her face didn't glow like she'd just descended from the heavens didn't make her a poor choice for a night's entertainment. Why wouldn't his body cooperate?

"None of my--" the marquis exclaimed. "Why, I've listened to your lectures my entire life. I think I deserve one chance to be the responsible one." He looked hard at Ash. "You can't toss years of good behavior out of the window just because you've realized you aren't as perfect as you once thought. One of us must care about that."

Ash whipped around. "Do you think I don't?"

On the tip of his tongue danced the explanation for his sudden behavior. Yet he couldn't seem to say it. What if Montborne was right? What if Ash's entire life, he'd only been fooling himself? What if he _was_ like his father? He had to know. Scantily clad, fast women had excited the former viscount. Was Ash attracted to the same?

He must know. He couldn't proceed with his search for a wife until he knew whether he could remain faithful to her. This test wasn't for his own entertainment. It was for science, and his eternal soul. For on the one hand, he never wanted to hurt his wife like his father had hurt his mother. And on the other, Ash didn't want to end up with a bullet through his back.

"Very well," the marquis replied, "you _are_ under control and I am acting the nervous ninny."

"Precisely."

"I'm glad we've cleared that up. Now, what of your sisters? How are they taking your sudden interest in London's demimonde?"

"My sisters are fine," Ash lied, for the truth was he had no idea. He only knew he deplored this conversation.

The marquis dropped his empty wineglass on a passing tray. "Lucy's transformation is rather interesting, actually. I'm not sure whether to be alarmed or pleased."

Ash kept his attention on the ballroom, searching, always searching, for a woman who made his body scream for release like Miss Smythe had. "Cease being aware of my sister."

Montborne shrugged. "Everyone is aware of your sister."

Ash frowned. At twenty-five hundred pounds, that seemed unlikely. With a tongue as sharp as a razor, it seemed impossible. She wouldn't make a man flush--not with cash or with excitement. They were speaking of _Lucy_.

Ash dismissed the notion along with the debutantes decorating the perimeter of the parquet floor. If one of the lily-whites caught his attention, it proved nothing. He needed to convince himself that he was not attracted to whores. He focused on a silk-clad woman in striking emerald. He could no more afford her than he could increase his sisters' dowries. But she was beautiful, and if he was going to press his experiment on anyone in this room, it would be her.

She turned, revealing an aristocratic profile fit for a duke's daughter. Perhaps she was. Loose women pulled from all ranks.

"Who is she?" he asked, knowing Montborne would have the answer.

The marquis righted himself from his customary--and practiced--indolent pose to focus on Ash's quarry. "Lady Heppenwaite? An earl, two dukes and a prince, and that was only last year. The countess is far above your reach."

"Introduce me."

"No."

Ash scooped a glass of wine from a passing tray and turned. "I have to try." It was the closest he'd come to admitting his fear aloud.

Montborne's icy eyes melted a fraction. "Don't do anything out of desperation that you will later regret."

Ash looked away. Montborne didn't understand. What if he simply hadn't known the extent of the depravity inside him? He'd demonstrated in Devon, the middle of God's own nowhere, that he could be chaste only until "nowhere" was invaded by lightskirts. Then he'd toppled like a stone circle in a bad storm. Solid, dependable, true, until a steady breath of wind became a forceful gust.

"I think I've been lying to myself all this time," Ash admitted finally. "Isolation masked my true nature."

Montborne moved to stand closer, so their shoulders almost brushed. "I hate to say it, Ashlin, God knows I do. But maybe your feelings had nothing to do with her being a tart. Maybe you actually cared for her."

Every muscle in Ash's body recoiled from the idea. He couldn't have _cared_ for her. She was a courtesan. She'd probably lain with half the men in this room.

God, that made him sick. _This_ was why he needed to move on. So he could stop thinking about what she might be doing right this minute--and with whom. "See here, Montborne. Testing my resolve is imperative, and I'll do it with or without your assistance." He paused. "Preferably with."

His hand opened and closed as he awaited the marquis' response. After all the times Ash had helped him out of one tangle or another, an introduction to one of Montborne's wicked women was hardly asking much.

Montborne sighed. He clapped Ash on the back. "This wouldn't be an issue if you'd just flogged a few more tavern wenches in your youth. But I suppose if you're bent on sowing your soggy oats when most men of your age are settling down, I'm your best bet to help. Still, why assume I know Lady Heppenwaite?"

Ash lifted a brow.

"Very well. Jessica isn't your type, though." He pulled his eyes from the ballroom to look long at Ash. "I warned you."

Ash's teeth gritted. He knew the countess wasn't his type. Her hair wasn't the warm color of cinnamon and her pink lips didn't turn up in a quick smile. She didn't remind him of sunshine and his heart didn't squeeze at the thought of her beside him. But he had to know if any of those were real emotions, or if he had created those feelings to justify an innate need to satisfy a baser inclination.

Montborne availed himself of two glasses of wine. He tossed one back and set the empty vessel on the tray, then indicated for Ash to follow him across the floor.

Jessica offered her hand to the marquis as he drew to a halt before her. "Hello, darling," she said. Her delicate wrist glittered in emerald-studded bangles. Across the room she'd been pretty enough, but up close she was ravishing. Large brown eyes twinkled in a heart-shaped face. Raven-black hair swept into a complicated knot at the top of her head, decorated by a diamond and emerald comb that matched the sparkle in her eyes.

Ash felt nothing.

Not true. He felt guilt, because she wasn't Celeste. If he was going to lower himself, didn't he owe it to Celeste to lower himself with her?

But wasn't that the stupidest thought he'd ever had?

When Montborne bent to kiss her hand, Jessica pulled him against her side, looping his arm through hers like a pretty bauble. Destitute he may be, but the tall, golden marquis led a charmed life.

She smiled at her prize before turning her attention to Ash. As she lifted her face, a pout formed on her rosebud lips. Her eyes attempted to engage his even as she addressed the marquis. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

Montborne cupped his hand over hers with a familiarity Ash found unsettling. "Surely you know Lord Trestin."

She made a moue, then dipped a slow curtsey which presented her charms quite clearly.

"I'm afraid I've been away from Town too long," Ash murmured, glad he sounded steadier than he felt. "London has grown in new and beautiful ways in my absence."

Her face lit with interest and her bosom doubled in size, or so it seemed. "What pretty flattery, my lord. I see they grow them fine in the country." She perused him, taking care to pause over his nether regions, and stretched her lips into a feral smile.

She would be a feather in any man's cap and it was obvious why. So what was his hesitation? He _wanted_ to try bedding her. Needed it. For himself and for his sisters, whom he was shamefully ignoring while his mind was obsessed with Miss Smythe.

God, hadn't he promised himself he'd never think of his sisters and sex in the same thought again?

Montborne's crystalline eyes bored into his, but Ash refused to acknowledge him. Finally, Montborne inclined his blond head. "If you'll excuse me, I'll just be somewhere else."

Jessica chuckled and patted his arm. He took himself off, though not before casting another warning look to Ash. He had helped, but not because he wanted to.

"I'd be honored if you would allow me to call on you," Ash said to her, forcing himself to look her in her face as he did. His voice sounded hollow, as if he didn't have the least bit of interest in his own invitation.

"Nine Grove Street," she replied without preamble, "Thursday, not before midnight." Her long lashes fluttered coldly, calculatedly. Had he been randy for her, he might have fallen for it.

But he wasn't. Not in the least. It was impossible to imagine Miss Smythe working her charms like that. But that had been the problem with the others, too. Miss Smythe would not have done this, Miss Smythe always did that. Truly, he needed to forget about Miss Smythe.

Jessica leaned scandalously close. "Fine wine goes a long way with me."

He nodded. Her husband must satisfy her monetary needs. The thought sickened him. Yet this was the way of things, how men satisfied their carnal desires without lowering themselves to tavern wenches. She wasn't precisely a courtesan, but her satin slippers treaded the seamier side of propriety.

How she'd come to warm the beds of titled men, he might never know. Her history was irrelevant. The beast was either inside Ash or it was not. He wouldn't know until he had tried and been caught up in the excitement of being with her, as he had with Miss Smythe. That sort of anticipation surely couldn't be expected in a ballroom, with hundreds of eyes upon him.

He swallowed and forced himself to finalize their assignation. "I will do my best to please you."

Jessica laughed. "I should hope so, my lord. Shall I expect you Thursday, then?"

His sisters' come-out. What better night to go straight to Hell? "Perfect."

She looked up at him from beneath impossibly long eyelashes. "As am I."

Ash gritted his teeth into a semblance of a smile. He definitely had his doubts.

**Chapter 18**

****

THREE DAYS LATER, Ash was of an entirely different mind. He'd had days to reconsider. To wish it was Miss Smythe he looked forward to, not some soulless Jezebel. Days to ask himself why he was doing this at all.

He'd gone to his sisters' come out. Danced with them and played the gallant, but all the while he'd been waiting for midnight. Now, just after half two, a bottle of brandy kept him company while he drew up the courage to keep his assignation with Lady Heppenwaite.

After a time, it heard his secrets. Soon, it had heard too much. He tossed the empty bottle into the fire. Lust should have burned in his loins. Instead, he felt all the excitement of a pile of sawdust.

The exquisite countess awaiting him was a prostitute. They would copulate and he would leave. In a few hours, he'd be here alone again, a shell of a man who had driven himself to deeds he barely understood. A man who wanted Miss Smythe--nay, _Celeste Gray_ --with the all-consuming fire of a thousand suns.

He instantly regretted the loss of the bottle. At least a mouthful of brandy had swirled in the bottom of the vessel, a mouthful he desperately wanted. The dregs burned in a pretty blue flame that mocked him. Should he call for another bottle? Render himself incapable of an act he had no wish to perform?

He laughed bitterly. Wouldn't impotence make an excellent rumor?

He was hardly impotent, however. He wanted release. Badly. Painfully. Seven years was a long time to go without a woman.

Yet no one could compare to the woman in his mind, not even Celeste herself. She was no paragon. And so the question remained. How could one night with a slattern sate him?

Ash lifted an empty crystal snifter and turned it idly in his hand, examining it for defects. He'd known Celeste had left Devon. He'd known she'd be here. He'd expected he would see her eventually. Why hadn't he seen her yet? Where was she?

She'd departed for London before he and his sisters. No explanation, no apology. Just packed her things and left.

People didn't just _leave_. It was highly inconsiderate. God, he was a little foxed, wasn't he? Why had she left? Had he made her flee? Had he railed at her until her only recourse was to leave? Even if he had chased her off, he deserved an explanation. People shouldn't just disappear.

An idea pushed its way through the mental fog that was his drunken brain. Why was he sitting here waiting to go to a strumpet he didn't want, when he could be getting what he desired most from the one he did? _He 'd_ made Celeste flee. If it was his fault she had run, he could get her back.

At least for a night. That should be enough.

Shouldn't it?

His carriage awaited. He could use it to go anywhere he damn well pleased.

He knew precisely the address he wanted to give. Minutes later, the equipage pulled before Celeste's terraced house. He struggled out of his carriage and loped to the door, feeling more soused than he'd been in years, if ever.

He grasped her lion's head knocker like it could save him. _Rap, rap, rap._

When the door didn't immediately open: _Rap, rap. RAP._

_Rap._

_Rap._

After an interminable amount of time, the door slid on well-oiled hinges to reveal a hulking man of indeterminate origin.

Ash frowned. "Who are you?"

"I'm the man who'll keep you out," came the surly reply. The door began to shut in Ash's face.

"Wait, wait, I didn't mean it that way. I meant to ask where Miss Gray is. I mean, is she at home?"

"Miss Gray?" A pause. Then, "She's not receiving."

The door continued its path toward his face, meant to assure Ash he wasn't welcome. He scowled. "Not _receiving_?" he asked, feeling drunk and rash and absolutely determined to see her. "She'll bloody well receive _me_. Tell her I'm here. Tell her--" He swayed, afire with indignation, and the sudden horror that his Miss Gray was no doubt earning her keep at this very moment. "No, I'll tell her myself."

He endeavored to push his way into the house, despite the fact her brute of a butler could have crushed him in one beefy butler palm.

The brute effectively blocked Ash's progress with an arm. "She's. Not. Receiving."

Ash pushed against the obstruction, nearly sick at the thought of her _receiving_ anyone but him. "She'll rethink that when she knows who it is."

"My orders are clear. No service after two of the o'clock."

"I'm different," Ash insisted. "Off with you now. Tell her Lord Trestin is here."

"Lord Trestin, you say?" The Atlas-like butler drew up and peered at Ash strangely.

Ash tried to skirt the man from the other side. "I _do_ say, good man, I _do_ say. Let a fellow through. I have matters of grave importance to discuss with her."

"Hmph. It's past three, you know." But the man let him through. A fact Ash greatly appreciated, as he was expending considerable energy attempting to shift the man's bulk with his own, less considerable weight.

"You're not what I thought," the man muttered, then grabbed Ash by the collar and dragged him through the hall.

Ash's toes trailed carpet. "Let--go--of--me--you--buffoon."

"Don't--bite--the--hand--that--feeds--you." The Greek god or pirate or eunuch towed Ash into a pitch-black room.

"Feed me? More like strangle me," Ash complained.

"I could have left you on the step," Atlas reminded him.

"If this is what passes for hospitality around here..." Ash muttered. "The least you could do is light a candle."

"No service after two of the o'clock," the brute reminded him, depositing him on an unseen sofa. "You're lucky I've decided to let you in. Sober up, milord. She deserves better than a drunken sot."

"I'm _very_ respectable," Ash called to the pirate/eunuch's giant back. Then dizziness accosted him and he concentrated on keeping his accounts where they belonged.

Lord, he _was_ sotted. His head spun in two directions and if he wasn't mistaken, this house looked suspiciously like a bordello.

Not that he'd ever been in a bordello, not that he could see past his nose, but he imagined a bordello might look something like the room he was in. Not that he knew which room he was in, but it probably looked like a bordello.

When he felt better, he concentrated on his speech. He was here to make a speech, wasn't he? Or did he think she was just going to let him into her bed?

"I understand you're a harlot," he said aloud, trying for something more conversational than, _Please, Miss Smythe, I 'm in love with my memories of you._

"And _you_ are clearly an ass of the first order." Her voice jolted him upright as candlelight flooded the room. He turned--carefully, so as not to swing his head--and gaped.

God, she was beautiful. The taper in her hand touched every curve perfectly. Her bed-tossed hair gathered in shimmering curls. He wanted to thrust his finger through each and every one.

Her green eyes were accusing and...something else. Hurt?

He latched onto it, shrouding himself in drunken hope. "Be my mistress," he pleaded, all self-restraint gone.

She visibly flinched. "Not in a thousand years."

"Why not?"

"Because."

She didn't need a reason. This was her territory. She was in control. His drunken hope shriveled.

Suddenly her shoulders collapsed. She looked at him helplessly. "Because this is who I am. I will never be anything more."

"But I'm not asking you to be." Even in his drunken state, he knew those were not the words she wanted to hear.

"I don't accept money from friends," she replied stiffly. "Now, good night."

He smiled what he hoped was a devastating smile. "We're friends?"

Candlelight bounced across her face, highlighting new gauntness. "We are nothing."

Was she gaunt because of him? He rose and took a step toward her, careful not to frighten her. "I think you do harbor some feelings for me," he said cautiously. "Whether you admit it or not."

She stepped back and thrust the candle between them, guarding her body from his. "Is intuition one of your achievements, my lord?"

He plucked the taper from her fingers and set it on a table. "Come now, don't deny it. If you didn't feel something, you would have called in the pirate by now."

"You're drunk." Another step backward. She hit the door's frame.

Perfect.

He searched her eyes. Within moments, he was lost. How beautiful she was, so vulnerable yet so strong. That part of his memories, at least, had been real. "Yes," he agreed, "but I'm also serious."

Her eyes flashed. "As serious as you were about Jessica?"

That drew him up. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "You sound jealous."

Her face turned, presenting him an alabaster cheek. "Everyone is talking about your progression through the lighter skirts in the _ton_."

He pressed his lips against her cheek. Not a kiss. Just feeling her, smelling her, detecting the leap of her pulse and indrawn breath. She smelled like heaven. Just as he remembered.

He straightened. "I don't want them. Only you."

She sucked in a breath. Her gaze flew to his face. Fear. And longing. Hope crashed through him.

"Celeste, I will offer you everything I have. Please, don't deny me. Not tonight."

Her lips parted. "Everything?"

She must know he had almost nothing compared to her. "Two hundred pounds per annum," he said, terrified she would reject his paltry sum.

Her face closed. She turned into him, pressing a warm round breast into his chest, but then, to his confusion, she wriggled her way under his arm and hefted his bulk against her shoulder.

What was this? Had he actually succeeded in convincing her?

"Five hundred pounds," she countered, "and you are allowed one night per week." She began propelling him down the hall toward the stairs.

"Outrageous." He settled his arm around her. Being near her was bliss. "I cannot possibly afford that."

"But you're desperate, my lord _, " _she reasoned as they worked their way to the stairs. "Five hundred pounds doesn't begin to take advantage of your desire."

"Oh, I'd hardly say I'm desperate. I left a perfectly good countess standing in her foyer just now."

"I can earn six hundred on my memoirs alone," she replied without a hint of emotion. "Five is a bargain."

"You can only sell that story once." They turned onto the stairs and he immediately tripped. The carpet seemed snagged in just the right places to catch his boot. Suddenly, he felt every ounce of the brandy he'd fortified himself with. What was he about? Was this really happening, or was it another dream?

They reached the landing. She nudged him down the hallway and into a bedchamber. He stopped at the side of the bed to nuzzle her neck. The riot of curls smelled so good, like lavender and vanilla.

She turned her head. A quiet moan escaped her. _Good God._ Was it really going to happen? Was he finally going to have her?

He nipped her just beneath the ear. "Three hundred pounds and you're at my beck and call."

She regarded him wryly. "My other patrons will complain about that."

The iciest thing she could throw at him. "Four and you lose them."

A bark of laughter escaped her. "Seven and I will tell you I love you."

He'd been wrong. That was colder. "Five and I will claim the same."

She pushed him onto the bed. "You're an ass."

"And you," he said as his head hit the pillow, "are beautiful."

**Chapter 19**

****

HE WAS TOUSLED, foxed, and completely unreasonable. What on earth was he doing here?

But she knew. A man in his cups would do anything that pleased his prick, even if his prick would eventually let him down. She was three and thirty, after all. And a fool. And half in love with him. And, and, and. There was no excuse for bringing him to this room and helping him off with his coat. Or his waistcoat. Or the impeccably laundered linen covering his chest.

His jaw was darkened by a hint of shadow. She touched it, drawing her fingers along the supple hairs on his chin. His eyes drooped closed in pleasure. Her heart ached with longing.

She dropped his linen to the floor, wanting nothing but to crawl under the coverlet with him. Was there anything headier than a man reveling in a woman's touch?

He had tried others since Devon. His eyes, so deep and clear, had regarded others with the intoxicating desperation she wanted reserved for her. She knew this because women talked, because some were her friends, and because everyone with a tongue was gossiping about Lord Trestin.

Yet here he was.

What next? Despite her bantering, she couldn't accept a shilling from him. And she couldn't lie with him.

He grabbed her wrist as she attempted to escape. "Stay."

"Let me go."

"A thousand pounds. If you but touch me. Here."

She sucked in her breath as he placed her hand on his naked chest.

"And here." He moved her hand to his brow. Her fingers pulled away from the heated skin, unable to bear the intimacy. He tugged her hand back to his chest, to the crested male nipple hardened in expectation of her touch. "And here."

Her core throbbed in response. Yes, she wanted to lie with him. She wished she could lock him in this room and never let him leave. But she would be a fool to give in just because he had slipped into her house and wooed her with a few drunken words.

"No," she said, pulling her hand away. It slipped from his grip freely, sending her wobbling off-balance.

"Celeste," he murmured, eyes half-closed. His long, black lashes fanned over his cheeks. "My dear, darling Celeste. You are a cruel woman."

They were the last words he uttered before passing into complete oblivion. Celeste, fool that she was, contemplated sliding into his arms. He would never know. She could use him to comfort her just as he'd meant to use her.

Instead, she tiptoed back to her room and crawled under the covers.

THE MOMENTARY CONFUSION of waking in an unfamiliar room was compounded by a brain-splitting headache and a lack of proper toiletries. Ash slung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. Not a strop or razor in sight. The film on his teeth could grow carrots and he'd give his last shilling for water and a soft cloth, neither of which were in view.

He staggered to a vanity table. The spindly stand offered hopes that were easily dashed. He rubbed his palm over the back of his head. Wearing yesterday's clothing was adventuresome enough. But for the love of God, he required a hair comb before he made an appearance below stairs. Wasn't his behavior last night shameful enough?

He surveyed his surroundings. The room wasn't dusty but it had an abandoned, musty smell to it and its contents had been whittled to only the most basic furniture and supplies. Which was not to say it wasn't a handsome room. The decor was of the utmost good taste. Surprisingly so, for a house he had come to regard in his drunken state as little more than a bordello.

A cursory scratch at the door was his only warning before it opened. An older, solid-looking woman entered. She carried a tray stocked with linen and a ceramic ewer.

He vaguely recalled seeing her the night they'd delivered Mrs. Inglewood's child, but it was the amenities next to the ewer that made him feel better about his predicament. She'd brought the blessed razor, a mug of coffee and--a finger of brandy?

"Aye, milord," she said, seeing him blanch, "hair of the dog."

He availed himself of the coffee and waited for her to set down the rest so he might shave. He wasn't particularly eager to begin his disgraceful journey home, but at least he would feel human doing so.

She rested the tray on the edge of the bed and turned to him expectantly. He cast a dubious look at the razor and then an even more dubious once-over at her matronly character. "Do you intend to shave me?"

She set her hands on her ample hips, not evidencing one whit of concern for their difference in station. "Do you prefer that barbarian who dragged you inside? Because it's me or him. You won't hurt my feelings if you prefer a man--"

He couldn't imagine letting last night's brute anywhere near his neck, especially not with a razor. "On the contrary," Ash reassured her, "a woman's hands are deft. I'm sure you'll do an excellent job."

She chortled. "You've not too much experience with washerwomen, then. But you're in luck," she said, wrapping a steaming towel around his neck as she pushed him into the nearest chair, "because I've got a wager on you and it don't include your being murdered."

When the maid finished--shaving him; he had a feeling she never finished prattling--he combed his hair, cleaned his teeth and took himself below stairs. Celeste's terraced house was clearly a home. Every trim and pillow had been carefully selected, and though he counted only a handful of rooms on the first floor, all appeared utilized. He peered through another door. Not a high-backed chair in sight. It was the antithesis of his house, where only the family's favorite rooms were open and even those had a stiff formality to them.

He hesitated in the doorway to the breakfast room. _The Times_ was spread to one side of her plate. He was smitten if he was jealous of a newspaper. It had acquired her full attention, and he felt awkward intruding. Yet he couldn't go, not yet. Not when he could observe her in her natural environment.

She had a slice of buttered toast in one hand and a pencil in the other. She looked so beautiful it made his heart hurt. The room was simple and elegant, like the rest of her house. A wall of windows let in morning light. The table was only large enough for four, and he suspected she didn't host too many callers in here.

But it was the woman herself who differentiated it from every other breakfast nook in London. Her luscious hair was pinned up haphazardly, as though her maid had been busy elsewhere that morning--perhaps shaving her unexpected guest. A white lawn dress draped gracefully over her slender shoulders. A single strand of pearls curved around her neck. As he shamelessly took her in, her exposed skin turned delightfully pink.

She was allowing him to watch her.

"Good morning," he said, entering the room. His voice was rough, though he'd conversed with her maid just a minute ago.

Without looking up, she indicated a sideboard, which was bare of everything save a cold poached egg. "Breakfast?"

"Thank you, but no." He was ravenous, but the lonely morsel indicated he was not invited to stay.

If that hadn't convinced him, her "Hmm" certainly did. She returned to her paper.

He pulled out the chair beside hers and sat. She set her pencil on the table and regarded him with mild annoyance. "Do you require something?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Good manners dictated-- But what were good manners in a situation like this? "I want to apologize for my behavior last night," he tried.

Her head jerked up. She hadn't expected that.

"I was rude and inappropriate. I hope you can accept my loutish behavior as a token of my esteem for you, and not allow it to affect our friendship."

Her eyes narrowed. "We're not friends."

He sighed. "I was hoping you'd changed your mind about that."

"I haven't."

He wanted to chuckle. So he did. "That will make it deuced awkward, then."

"Make what awkward?" A moment later she frowned, as though she hadn't meant to take the bait.

He hesitated. Should he press her? Or should he take himself away and forget the whole thing?

What if she told him she never wanted to see him again?

What if she didn't? He steeled himself. "When I call tonight."

Her eyes lowered. "I don't want your money." But she didn't say no.

"Ah, forgive me," he said, deciding to test his luck, "I thought as your sideboard is clearly suffering--"

"What--!" She caught herself. "That was for _your_ benefit. So you would not feel encouraged to _linger_."

He lifted an eyebrow. Bantering was a good sign, wasn't it? "Breakfasts prepared with economy and rooms short on necessities, to me, indicate one is also short on funds."

She scowled. "I sent Hildegard."

"A woman to do a man's job."

"I should not have talked Gordo out of it." She laid her hand across her table knife and smiled, as if she knew what threats had been made against him.

"Now _there 's_ a servant without a lick of proper manners--" he said with a grin.

"I live alone, my lord. One learns the difference between propriety and impropriety very quickly. Gordo ensures propriety."

On cue, the burly manservant darkened the doorway.

"It's all right, Gordo. Lord Trestin was just leaving."

"And risk being seen at your front door in the middle of the morning?" Ash countered, surprised by his quick wit.

_She 'd finally done it._ She'd finally cut loose the last of his restraints. There was no need to remain stuffy in her house, where only she and her handful of servants would see him. "I think not."

She rolled her eyes. " _Now_ you are worried about propriety?"

"Rear gate," Gordo grumbled. "Leads right to the mews, it does."

"Ah-ha!" She beamed over-sweetly. "I told you Gordo ensures propriety."

Ash crossed his arms over his chest, settling into his chair, and regarded her innocently. "I would never leave before the tour."

She faltered. Then her eyes took on an impish gleam. "Very well, my lord. Please, let me show you around."

"Excellent." Getting to his feet, he helped her with her chair and offered his arm.

Surprise at his gentlemanly consideration heightened her color. Combined with her tousled hair, she could have come straight from being tumbled. His delicate pride prevented him from remembering all the ways he'd failed in that endeavor, but it was no wonder she was so successful at her craft. She was loveliness and hot buttered toast and the cooling shade of his favorite apple tree all rolled into the earthy heat of a summer day. He drew a fortifying breath of lavender and woman. Everything about her...

He stopped himself. No, she was far from perfect. As was he. He really ought to get ahold of this poetic nonsense.

They exited the breakfast room and entered the main hallway. A large painting caught his attention. "I have seen Rubens and DaVincis," he said, impressed with the thick oils and rich colors dabbed on the canvas just outside the breakfast room, "but they are not quite so..."

"Engaging?" Her voice was soft, as though she'd stood in this exact place a hundred times.

The portrait suddenly seemed more than a simple artist's rendering of a family with children in leading strings and a dog that wouldn't sit still. What was it about her that turned him into a Byron think-alike?

Foreboding warned him not to look too closely into the real Celeste Gray, and absolutely _not_ to develop more imaginary conclusions about her character. But he couldn't leave without acknowledging her exquisite taste, for it was precisely the sort of painting he'd like to hang in his drawing room, even if he hadn't known it until now.

"Your artist meant to involve me in this scene," he said.

"Yes. She was expressing the futility of a young mother who has successfully produced the 'heir and spare' and has nothing left to offer her husband."

He blinked. That wasn't the impression he had of the painting. The mother looked tired, yes, but that was to be expected. Two small children were exhausting no matter how many governesses one threw into the mix. But resigned? He didn't see it.

Secondly, the style wasn't feminine, at least not to his eye. Every woman he knew dabbled rather poorly in watercolors. This was a grand piece of art, fit for an entryway. There was a breath of life in it he couldn't describe in words. "Did you create this?"

She laughed. Nervously. "Oh, no. I have a terrible eye for detail."

"A friend, then." He turned back to the painting, trying to see it as she did. "How can a painting filled with emotion and color create a sense of futility? The subject is expecting, I think. Another child, perhaps a girl this time. I see hope."

Celeste didn't answer for so long, he thought she might not. Then, in businesslike tones, she said, "It is what is missing, not what is shown. The painting is too perfect to be real."

Ah. Yet more insight into her. "Was it a gift?"

She shook her head. A pleased smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I liked it."

She liked many schools of art. All shared the simplicity and grace he was coming to expect of her. Though she was a very different woman than the one he'd nearly given his heart, there was also humanity to the courtesan, a window into her thoughts that she boldly opened. Even the nudes had feeling.

Especially the nudes. "Most of your collection portrays the human condition," he mused as they worked their way down the hall.

"This is my receiving room," she said without acknowledging his observation, instead throwing open the door to an immense room that took his breath away. _Good God._ She'd led him here to prove a point. He'd willingly followed, intent on disproving her. A good idea at the time.

He forced himself to peruse the room with the same level of interest he would afford the kitchens at Worston. "It seems rather closed-in."

She glared at him. "Private _._ "

"Just so. A window would let in daylight, which I think would improve the overall atmosphere." There were pillows. _On the floor._ And a balcony above, for those who enjoyed playing voyeur. To the right leaned a mirror large enough to reflect the entire room.

His imagination filled in the rest: naked limbs entwined in candlelight. Half-empty bottles of wine. Platters of cheese propped on the cushions, forgotten. Low moans of ecstasy and the rhythmic slap of flesh feeling flesh.

_Celeste._

She was glaring at him, completely unaware of his debauched thoughts. "This is an evening room. For _nighttime_ activities."

"Which is another thing," he said, surprised his voice sounded almost normal, "there aren't nearly enough sconces in here. A few candelabras or even a chandelier would do the trick. I wager you cannot read in here after sunset."

"Read?" Her lips parted. "If you want to read, the fireplace--"

"Is no doubt too hot to run year-round. Can you imagine this room in the summer? Yet another reason to install a window." He was enjoying himself, he realized, and the flush across her cheeks. "In fact, now that I look closer, I suspect these...carpets...make the room almost intolerable in the summer. A nice cool surface such as the Spanish tile in the drawing room would improve the temperature."

She couldn't thrust him from the room fast enough. "You're going home."

He turned to regard her in pretend confusion. "Was it something I said?"

"Yes!"

"You're not taking to my suggestions?" he teased her.

"No!" She stopped pushing against his shoulder. "You're right about the window, but there's nothing to be done about it. I asked. The architect who designed these terraced houses refused to change it before they broke ground."

"It's never too late to make a modification," Ash said.

"It would be ungodly expensive now that the house is built."

"You don't appear to lack money." He said it as a matter of fact, surprising himself. As though he were coming to accept who she was despite how it made him feel.

"True," she admitted, "but it would be easier to move."

"Yes, well, I feel that way sometimes, too." He turned to her. "But one window is a small improvement, on the scale of things. Are you simply afraid to issue the order yourself?"

"Why is it that when a woman wishes to leave well enough alone, she's scared and in need of persuasion, but when a man is satisfied with the status quo, he must have done it correctly the first time?" Her eyes were wide, the humor long gone from them.

"You're scared?"

"The house was built this way!"

He ought to stop, but this seemed important. "Just because something is one way doesn't mean it can't be different. I know a masterful architect--"

"Why must things always be the way _you_ want them to be?" she cried. "I don't wish to change."

"Fine." He raised his hands in supplication. He'd gone too far, but he couldn't shake the feeling they were talking about something bigger than the windowless room. "I promise, I'll only observe."

"There is nothing else to see."

He waggled his fingers. "Eight rooms."

She sighed. But a small smile played about her lips. She liked that he'd paid attention.

"I counted them this morning," he explained.

The smile surrendered into a laugh. "I did not invite you to do so."

"I know."

"I meant I did not invite you into my house."

"Oh, that." He waved it away. "I kept waiting for an invitation from the illustrious Celeste Gray, but..." He shrugged. It was Montborne's bourgeois gesture and it quite suited the moment.

She looked at him in surprise. Then she left his side, drawing her fingertips across the cushion of a brown fainting couch. "I haven't entertained in... Well, it doesn't signify, except to say you would have waited a very long time."

So she _didn 't_ have a protector. Instead of reveling in the possibility she might allow him to become that man, he shrugged again, enjoying the repeat look of astonishment on her face. "One can always hope. And as you see, I didn't wait long, after all."

When she remained quiet, watching him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, he dived in. "I know I'm not the wealthiest man who has offered his protection, but I promise you will want for nothing. Celeste, please... Consider me."

He was aware how vulnerable he sounded. But he had to do something, because not having her was killing him.

Her fingers rubbed back and forth, back and forth against the cushion. Their slow trail maddened him. "What if I'm the kind of mistress who spends money carelessly and incurs debt faster than you can take your pleasure? What if I run through your sisters' dowries before you can get me out of your system? What then?"

He stepped forward. "Would you? Abuse my feelings for you?"

"No!" She looked confused. " _If_ I consent to be your plaything, which I have not."

His gaze bored into hers as he approached another step. "Have you ever been anyone's plaything?"

She glanced away. She was so vulnerable, so in need of protection. "You make it sound sordid."

"It doesn't feel sordid, Celeste. Not anymore." He took two more steps. He reached to catch her hand but she pulled it away.

"Please. Don't run. I came here last night because I'm yours for the taking. I have never wanted a woman as completely as I want you."

She paused. His heart wrenched for her. "That is cruel."

"It's true. You're under no pressure to accept my offer. I simply feel it is in order to suggest it."

She tore her gaze from his. "You know I will say yes."

"Because you have been so obliging of my wishes in the past," he drawled.

"Cynicism doesn't suit you."

"Then I shall only make jests from here on."

"I will not love you," she replied. "Commerce only, and you cannot hold my services indefinitely."

It was his turn to hold his tongue.

A single tear formed and trickled down her cheek. The rest of her was as composed as a statue. "What of Montborne? Your sisters? Your marriage?"

"Montborne can rot, my sisters will always be cared for and speaking of my marriage is premature." Because he couldn't think of taking a wife now, not when he could have her.

She drew back. Proud. Frightened. "I won't accept a shilling from you. And you must promise to leave me when I ask it."

Could he? But then, he would say anything if it meant she would allow him into her bed tonight. "Agreed."

"I wish to have it in writing." Her voluptuous body was so close to his, but it felt like they were building a wall between them.

"My secretary is in the country, but I will have a contract drawn by the end of the week."

"One day off for rest," she added.

"Your days are your own," he replied, because he had won. _He had won_. "Your every night is mine."

"Engagements are not included," she said, rosebud lips forming a moue.

He grinned wickedly. "Then we shall stay home."

"Dinner is not included, either." She backed a step, trapping herself against the wall.

"Then it is a good thing I only desire dessert."

"Kissing is..."

He closed the gap between them and rubbed the soft flesh of her lower lip with his. Desire shot through him. God, she felt good. She felt amazing. "Kissing is absolutely included."

"I don't have to accept your terms, my lord," she said against his lips. "My company is much in demand, aged to perfection as it is."

He breathed deeply of the morning freshness of her skin, the light lavender scent of her hair. "Then I will become something of a connoisseur."

Her head turned, revealing her pulse. _Thump, thump, thump._ She was affected. At least as much as he.

Who was he fooling? He was raging for her. He grasped her head and pulled her lips to his, kissing her as hungrily as he had in his dreams. She returned his passion.

Something crashed to the floor as he pushed her harder against the wall. She was Miss Smythe, his improper neighbor. Celeste, the toast of the demimonde. Miss Gray, an angel who lived in a tastefully decorated bordello.

She was the woman who had scorned him and forced him to lengths of which he would never have believed himself capable.

Summoning every fiber of strength in him, he pushed himself from her. His lips brushed the soft curve of her ear as he turned. "I _will_ claim what's mine."

**Chapter 20**

****

Celeste's heart thundered in her chest as she watched him climb into his carriage. He'd left through the _front_ door. And she'd _allowed_ him to. They might as well print it in the gossip columns: they had an arrangement. Such a juicy morsel would be all over London before she could even finish her toilette.

And what recklessness it was. How did his gentle teasing and solid strength make her think a few weeks or months or nights were worth certain heartache?

How bold she'd sounded, announcing theirs would be a business arrangement! Even if she were not half in love with him already, she couldn't keep that promise. Her life had been so empty. Being with someone who made her _feel_ was a drug.

She drew the curtain back, hovering just out of sight. The street below was beginning its daily bustle. How had things become complicated in such a short amount of time? She'd gone to Devon in search of a different life. Somehow, she was where she'd started. Mistress to a man who despised and desired her at the same time.

She wanted to be with Ash. Just not like this.

When the time came for her to dress for the day, she hesitated. Then, with a simple order, her schedule was cleared. A late morning breakfast, two lectures and an opera, all easily wiped with a word from her lips.

In the afternoon she drew on her robe and watched the street for more hours than she cared to admit. A glimpse of him was all she desired, however cork-brained that made her.

_He 'd said he would come._ Would he? Or would he come to his senses, as she ought to do?

Finally, a note arrived. On fine card stock, with an economy of words, he laid out his request:

_Midnight. Dessert and entertainment. Provided by you._

Rising, she pressed the card to her breast. It was madness, yes, but she couldn't seem to stop it.

Having a boiler woman for a lady's maid had never hampered her toilette. Hildegard collected every lace-edged gown and high-necked bodice Celeste owned and hefted them into the bedchamber.

"This one is too much," the maid declared, laying a slinky red evening gown to the side. "The color is fine but the decolletage leaves nothing to the imagination."

Celeste nodded, too nervous to speak.

Hildegard tossed another revealing gown across the bed and lifted a green silk with a high waist and long sleeves. "I've always liked this one on you. Just enough bosom without giving away what you work so hard to put a price on."

"Thank you," Celeste replied. "I'll see if it still fits."

The gown wasn't in the first stare of fashion, but Ash was too rustic to notice. All she required was a little help with her unruly curls and she was ready.

"There hasn't been one like him before," her stocky maid commented around a mouthful of hairpins. "You're not a child anymore, but I feel like I'm the closest thing you've got to a ma and someone has to caution you."

Celeste was too jumbled with nerves to reprimand her maid's familiarity. "I'm not sure I ever was a child."

"Pish. In some ways you're still a little girl looking for affection."

The comment struck Celeste as depressingly accurate. She felt her age--she felt a hundred years older than her age--yet she craved love with the insatiable hunger of a child.

Several heartbeats passed in which she debated rebuking or indulging Hildegard. A part of her itched to deny the accusation. But after fifteen faithful years of service, perhaps Hildegard _was_ the authority on Celeste Gray. No other person had been with her through more.

She regarded her plump-armed champion in the mirror. Hildegard and Gordo depended on the decisions she made. They would follow her anywhere. Devon. London. Heartbreak.

Celeste took a breath, accepting she was long overdue for a look at herself. "How so?"

"Well," Hildegard relaxed into the unusual intimacy of the moment, "when I look at you, I see the scared little girl you must have been after your ma died. You had no income, you couldn't sew, you could barely a boil a carrot. She left you alone while she ran off on holiday with a lover. What were you to do when she never came back?"

Celeste went rigid. "I did the best I could."

Hildegard began separating strands of Celeste's hair into sections. Her strokes were soothing, her tone brisk. "Of course you did. You set up in your ma's flat and took up with a man and made the best of it. Not many girls could have done as well for themselves. But there was a cost." Hildegard wrapped a section of auburn hair around the curling tongs. "Eighteen years later, it's still you alone."

Celeste concentrated on sitting motionless under the hot tongs. Hildegard's assessment made her want to squirm. "I have friends," she said, a touch too defensively.

"You are well-known."

"I give and receive affection all the time."

Hildegard snorted. "You touch other people and they touch you." She freed another tendril of Celeste's hair and wrapped it around the hot tongs. "A hug...the warmth of a man on a cold night...when he squeezes your hand just to remind you he loves you... That's affection."

Celeste did want that. But Hildegard was wrong. That type of fondness was the exception, not the rule.

She'd seen dozens of men walk away. From her. From their wives. That was her lot in life, the hand she was dealt. She'd learned to play her cards close.

It was all she __ could do now, for the game was already underway.

HE ARRIVED SHARPLY at midnight, though there was no reason to be punctual. Gordo showed him into the drawing room, conferring upon him all the respect demanded of a man of his rank and sobriety, but also demonstrating a boyish sort of expectation. No doubt he and Hildegard had been talking below stairs.

Maybe Celeste wasn't quite as alone as she'd always thought.

"Lord Trestin to see you, Miss Gray." Gordo waited expectantly, meaty hands clasped behind him as though he were a respectable butler in a respectable house.

"Thank you, Gordo. You may have Hildegard send in the tray."

The manservant loped from the room. Celeste stayed the urge to call him back. Her heart pounded as Trestin approached and bent over her bare hand. "My lord," she said, offering him a shallow curtsey, "please be seated. I trust you are hungry after your evening?" Goodness, she sounded formal.

He nodded stiffly, eyes unreadable, and extended his arm. Her keen awareness of him, of what they were about to do, made her head light.

She allowed him to lead her to a sofa only large enough for two. "Dessert would be divine," he said in a voice roughened by arousal, "but I admit there are other things in this room I find far more...delectable."

He infused the air with the scent of starched linen, shaving soap, and the faint trace of brandy. Mixed with her lighter perfume and the familiar, comforting scent of her drawing room, it was intoxicating. She found herself leaning in...brushing her arm against his...tilting her head until a curl escaped and fell across her face.

_No._ It couldn't happen this way. Not this fast.

"Truffle?" she squeaked, reaching for a foil-wrapped box on her low table.

He hesitated, perhaps confused by her sudden skittishness, and she took the opportunity to busy her hands. _If he had his hands beneath her skirts without preamble ... If he came in and they went straight to bed... _She lifted the box and untied its ribbons with shaking hands. His palm rose as if to decline when she proffered the confections. Then a gleam came into his eye. He plucked the largest from the box and waved the rest away.

Celeste's pulse beat wildly in her ears. It didn't take years of experience to know what he intended next. "My lord?"

"Ash," he corrected, giving her leave to use his given name.

The cloying scent of dark chocolate suffocated her as he brought the truffle to her lips.

"I--I am not ready."

She had his attention now. He set the chocolate on top of the box and rested his hand on his thigh. "An odd sentiment for a woman in your position."

"I--It's just that I would prefer if we took things slowly." A ludicrous idea. She was a great courtesan. She'd brought men to climax within minutes of them stepping into her receiving room.

Why, then, did she feel she needed something more from Ash before she allowed him even the simple liberty of a kiss?

He leaned back against the sofa, surprising her with his easy capitulation. "What shall we do then, madam hostess? I'm at your mercy."

She was momentarily at a loss. "A game of chess?" She'd become a fair player, for most men enjoyed passing a few hours in their mistress's company.

Chess usually came after they'd adjourned to her rooms, however, not before.

He shook his head. A twinkle came into his eye. Was he laughing at her? "Too much thinking."

She indicated a gaming table nestled in the corner of the room. "Cards?"

The gleam in his eye became a glint. "Cards can be vastly entertaining. What shall we wager?" He slid closer to her again. "A kiss?"

She shook her head too fast.

"Hmm..." His finger traced one of the red curls framing her face. "Perhaps I can read to you."

Oh, that sounded lovely. To hear Byron's poems in his voice!

But curling up against him, her head pressed to his shoulder, her eyes slowly closing as he lulled her to sleep...

"Too intimate," she said, aware how long it had taken her to reply.

"Ah, and now we come to the real problem. The lady does not wish to be alone with me."

"I do!"

He moved suddenly and his arms came around her, pinning her against the sofa. His thigh touched hers. He'd given her a chance. He was done with her timidity.

She pressed into the cushioned frame but it was no use. "I simply desire time to better make your acquaintance, my lord."

His heavy-lidded eyes swept over her, from her forehead to her cleavage, and back to her eyes. "I wasn't aware we are strangers."

His nearness was intoxicating, the game she played with her heart, perilous. She wanted to feel him inside her. Over her. Thrusting into her. She desired to be close to him in a way she'd never understood before.

Her breasts rose and fell. His eyes dipped to watch their trajectory hungrily. Gone was any trace of the staid, proper man she'd known in Devon.

"Tell me something you know about me," she whispered. _Pretend you care about me._

The room grew darker as another drop of candle wax pooled in its sconce. He regarded her gravely, as though trying to understand her request. "You are a woman who changes with the tide."

"No, not that." She touched his cheek with the tip of her finger. She traced his cheek to the corner of his eye, then to the edge of his hairline. "Something real. How old am I?"

His face broke into a handsome smile. "A man never assumes."

She smiled back, letting her finger roam the masculine curve of his brow. "Humor me. I promise not to be angry. Prove to me you know anything at all about me."

He raised up and sat back on his calves, trapping her thighs between his knees. "You can't be very old, as I feel we're of an age. You've lived a fuller life which adds a depth I see now. Your skin..."

"I'm three and thirty," she replied stiffly, ending his too-intimate assessment of her. Had he really put that much thought into her age?

He ran his palms down her arms. "I knew that," he said in the confident way men assert their superior knowledge.

She rolled her eyes. "You knew no such thing."

"Three years, eight months and twenty-nine days." He brought her hands together over her head. Suddenly both of her wrists were trapped in one of his hands. The other cupped her chin. He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, barely touching her at all. "I find our ages suitably matched."

She squirmed beneath him as a burst of pleasure shot through her core. "How do you know that?"

He removed his thumb to trail his finger in a slow, torturous path to her breasts.

"A woman's age is _private_ ," she complained.

"Are you unhappy that I inquired about your birthday?"

Her cheeks flushed.

"You just asked me to guess your age. You even claimed you wouldn't be angry with me." He drew his fingertip over the sensitive mound of her breast. "I knew I ought to have sensed a trap."

His eyes caught hers. _It was a birthday. What was the harm?_ he seemed to ask. But no man had ever cared, not even her father.

What else did Ash know?

She had to look down the length of her body to see him. Her eyes were hooded as she asked, "Who told you?"

His satisfied smile was wholly masculine. "One has only to meander to St Paul's to understand a bit about the courtesan one is pursuing."

His first finger plunged into the tight bodice of her emerald gown. His eyes were shrouded as he removed his finger and pushed it into her mouth. She suckled it, laving it with her tongue. With a gasp, he pulled out. Then he plunged it between her breasts again, thrusting it in and out.

She was already wet, and writhing her hips in anticipation of the pleasure he would give her. She must distract him before he had her clothing off. After that, there would be no more talking.

"Wh-why did you go there?" she asked weakly.

He bent to lick the tops of her breasts. Between flicks of his tongue, he said, "I'm not sure what upsets you more. That I'm curious about you, or that I know you're the natural child of Maggie Graven and an unnamed aristocrat."

That brought her up cold. "My father is none of your business."

He released her wrists, gathered her to him, then with an onslaught of strength, pulled her down on top of him. His erection pushed into her belly, but his hands were soothing on her back. "If I knew who your father was, I'd have strangled him by now. What man abandons his daughter? And to that kind of life, no less?"

"Our life was fine."

"Better than most in your circumstance, perhaps."

Better than his relationship with his father. One had to love someone to be hurt by them.

For several moments, she was tense. Then she nestled her head into the crook of Ash's neck, easing by degrees against him. Her body ached with unfulfilled need and her heart felt raw and exposed, but he felt good this way, firm and muscular beneath her.

He traced her cheek with his fingertips. "A drop of blue blood runs through your veins. At least he gave you that."

She pulled away. "Am I nothing but a pretty face?"

Golden eyes bored into hers. "I didn't say that."

"I'm sorry," she clipped shortly, wishing he hadn't found an open wound. Without her genteel looks, she would never have risen to the great heights she had. Without her profession, she had nothing.

She belonged nowhere.

Using deep, even breaths, she tucked her emotions back in to the neat little boxes she kept them in. Men had mistresses precisely to avoid the complications of emotions. Hers were a torrent, undecipherable even to her.

She wouldn't blame Ash if he decided bedding her wasn't worth the effort.

But he stayed. After a while he said, "My father was unfaithful to my mother. I watched it torment her and I vowed never to become that man. I suppose we're both looking for that one chance to prove we're better than the people who sired us." His voice deepened. "Now, I learned something else about you. You own a rather sophisticated telescope."

The tension of the last few minutes subsided, then slowly began to build again. How did he know what she needed?

"A Dollond, yes." Her reply came out on a staggered breath.

"I should like to see it, if you don't mind."

She nodded. They untangled themselves from the sofa cushions. "This way, my lord," she murmured, leading him into the hall and up the staircase to the gallery.

The corridor glowed with soft light provided by sconces along the left wall. To their right, an iron railing looking into her receiving room.

Her astronomy room was along the gallery, which wasn't accidental. Everything about her home was designed with a man's entertainment in mind. Only her sitting room and her private bedchamber were inaccessible to guests, safely located on the third floor.

Her hand rested on the doorknob a heartbeat too long. In the cottage in Devon, every room was hers. She did not need to share herself with anyone.

"Is something amiss?"

"N-no." She opened the door. She scooped a candle from the entry table and used the hall sconce to ignite the wick. Armed with a healthy light, she turned and startled.

Hunger glowed in Ash's eyes, fed by the flame.

_You 've seen a man desire you before,_ she chided herself _._ But her heart raced anyway. She stepped around him and entered the room. The scent of his shaving soap followed her all the way to the window. After lighting two more lamps she lifted the cover from her Dollond telescope and stepped back to allow him to inspect her equipment.

"The work of a superb master," he complimented, lifting the heavy telescope a few inches off the table to test its weight. "I ought to have known you'd have only the best. May I?"

Too taut to do anything but nod, she watched him expertly adjust the draw to extend the scope its full length. The telescope remained upright on cabriole legs as he tilted the tube left and right.

"It's also useful for looking into windows," she suggested in measured tones. What would he think of her positioning it in such a way? But he was bound to realize the vantage shortly. Stars were nearly invisible through London's smog. There was nothing else to look at but her neighbor's interiors.

Ash wasn't jaded enough to conceal his shock. "Windows?"

She pulled the drape aside. This was a street of fashionable courtesans, far enough from the brothels to add a hint of respectability, but segregated from the rest of Polite Society.

Three of the windows crossways glowed. Of those, two had the curtains drawn back. One of those looked directly into Sophia LaMonte's entertaining room. And indeed, she was entertaining.

Ash tipped the Dollond toward Sophia and her lover. He removed the lens cap and adjusted the eyepiece before selecting another eyepiece with a shorter focus.

His indrawn breath wasn't the least bit methodical.

Celeste had a good idea of the scene. Sophia LaMonte wasn't particularly imaginative. Moreover, her creamy breasts were visible to the naked eye. Though the show Ash was getting was of a much higher quality, Celeste didn't need a telescope to see what was happening in the window across the street.

At first, she didn't identify the acidic feeling in her stomach as anything but an unsettled reaction to her afternoon tea. But as Ash continued to watch Sophia's performance, Celeste slowly she realized she was jealous.

Jealous! Her!

It must be the first time. As she watched Ash's dark head bent in studious fascination, her feeling matured into full-fledged possessiveness. She was at once annoyed and panicked. Yet in a strange way, she relished _feeling_.

"This woman has a very strange concept of what is attractive to a man," he commented, adjusting the Dollond's focus to keep pace with the couple moving from the low couch in the corner to Sophia's massive four-poster centered in the room.

"That must be why you cannot take your eyes off her," Celeste remarked wryly.

"Are you jealous?" He tilted the Dollond away from the couple and regarded Celeste with just enough amusement to irritate her.

She rolled her eyes. "You don't even know her name."

Ash abandoned the telescope to close half the distance between them. "I could find out."

"It's Sophia. Sophia LaMonte." She didn't know why she said it quickly, other than Ash already knew where Sophia lived and could find her without any effort.

What difference did it make if his attention wandered? It would eventually. All men's did.

In fact, it already had. Once again he was peeping into the room across the street.

Gathering herself together, Celeste pushed him away from the Dollond. "Allow me, my lord."

With a mock bow, he surrendered the equipment. She leaned into the eyepiece and _tsk_ ed. "It is exactly as I feared. Lord de Winter has lost all capacity of reason and is letting Sophia's pink mouth think for him. The poor sot will be bankrupt by morning."

"That's not quite the way I'd put it." Drawing his face level with hers, Ash murmured, "He's most definitely thinking it through. He's wondering if he should be doing this. He's wondering if he will be found out. He's wondering where she learned to do such exquisite things with her tongue, and whether or not he will be able to sneak out to do this again." Ash's voice lowered. "He's wondering how much it will cost and if he even cares. Mostly, though, he's thinking about the many ways he wants to put himself inside her, and whether she will object to any of them."

Celeste inhaled sharply. "It sounds like you wouldn't mind being in his place, my lord." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I don't deny it." His breath blew lightly across her ear. "Indeed, I fear my head is quite wrapped around it."

Hers, too. "Then perhaps we should retire."

"That is a spectacular idea."

"I meant from this endeavor, my lord." Her voice was barely audible now, her eyes blind to the scene across the street. She felt nothing but the overpowering heat of his presence.

"And shorten my first encounter with your exquisite Dollond?"

"The hour grows late. I have many things to occupy me in the morning--"

His mouth covered hers. Her body responded, euphoric, eager and traitorous. His hands caught her upper arms, but he wouldn't be content to stop there. He wanted and he would take.

Instinctively, she knew she would give.

He began inching her back toward a fainting couch in the middle of the room. Its purpose was clear, but she couldn't. Not there.

Her knees caught against it. She held his coat lapels tight so she wouldn't fall back against it, and pressed kisses to his chin so he wouldn't think she was reneging. "Not here."

"But I like here." He nipped her bottom lip. His manhood stood stiff and straight between them, bound by his breeches and the tiny thread of decency she still possessed.

Carefully, she avoided brushing against it as she grasped his hand and pulled him toward the hall.

"Celeste," he moaned, allowing her to lead him through her house, "why am I always waiting for you?"

"It's good for you, my lord."

He pulled her back to him and ground his erection against her backside. "And you're such a good little girl, aren't you? Always concerned about me and what is good for me. You even left me alone when you thought it was what I wanted."

"You speak nonsense, my lord." She tried to pull away, but he held firm.

"Then why did you leave?" He rubbed himself against her rear. His hands roamed to cup the undersides of her breasts. "Why did you run away from Devon? Were you afraid?"

"Yes!" she cried. He continued to hold her even as she tried to pull away. "Being with you is a mistake."

He stopped rubbing against her. "For whom?"

"You! Me! Both of us!"

"Then where are we going?" He sounded genuinely confused.

Exasperated, she spun to face him. "To my room!"

He looked back at the room from which they had just withdrawn. "Are you trying to confuse me?"

She wrapped her arms around herself. "Not exactly."

"Then I'm not leaving."

He advanced, closing the space she'd made between them. As always, though, he seemed to understand her before she understood herself. "Unless, for some reason you want me to."

She stared at the carpet. "I don't."

And she didn't. But she did.

Gently, he prodded, "Why?"

A frown bent her brows together. Why must he make this so difficult? She hardly knew what she wanted anymore. How could she explain it to him?

"There you go again," he said, cajoling her. "You're upset with me. What have I done?"

She threw her hands up. "You make me like you!"

He laughed as though she'd just said the maddest thing. And perhaps she had. Couldn't she allow herself even a few blissful moments of intimacy without worrying about tomorrow? Or was she really so terrified of losing her heart that she would deny herself this chance to know what it meant to make love?

The more he laughed, the sillier she felt. A smile threatened her lips. "Although, you are doing a remarkable job of changing that at the moment."

"I'm sorry," he said, trying hard to conceal his amusement. And he _was_ trying, she had to give him that. "But truly," he said, "what do you want me to do? I want you so badly it burns. I can't stand next to you without pain. Yet no matter how hard I try to pretend you're Miss Smythe, there is a terrible hole in my heart where my perfect little image of you used to live. So what would you have me do?"

_Love me anyway._

But she said, "I expect you not to laugh."

"I see."

She recognized his frustrated look. The expression of a man attempting a task which should have been simple but was quickly becoming complicated.

She would lose him if she didn't decide soon.

He spoke first. "I think we've had enough introspection for the night. We must forget all of this and enjoy ourselves. Now, let me think how best to distract you..." He waggled his eyebrows. "Perhaps you are...ticklish?" Without warning, he pounced.

She was, in fact, extremely ticklish. Before his fingers even found her most sensitive places, she shrieked and squirmed to get away. "Ash! Don't you dare!"

He caught her around the waist from behind. Hard muscle curved around her back, cupping her with the promise of a perfect fit. Her body softened to accommodate him. Even her laugh deepened, signaling her readiness to acquiesce. She had expected him to avoid a direct discussion about their future. Yet a part of her had secretly hoped he'd take her in his arms and exclaim, _Yes, Celeste, I love you. I will always love you. Now can we please get on with it?_

"Shall we finish the tour now?" he asked into her ear. His hands slowed to caress the flat plane of her belly and the curve of her hips.

"You've already tried that," she scolded over her shoulder, scratching her delicate cheek against the roughness of his chin. Her fingertips traced each of his knuckles, memorizing his skin and the feel of him wrapped around her. This was the extent of what he would give her. She must be satisfied with that.

She led him up the stairs to the floor that housed her private rooms. He was the only man she had ever invited up.

If he sensed as much, he didn't say. The room was lit by a low-burning candle. He looked around without comment.

Walking to the window, she drew the curtains closed. It was more out of habit than out of modesty, though she preferred not to put on a show like Sophia LaMonte. The fact was, Celeste wasn't an exhibitionist. She was a neat creature by nature, and any flamboyance in her public persona was purely for show. Even the viewing gallery was primarily for display. Men were aroused by its existence, but most were too private to utilize it themselves.

Her Dollond was the most erotic implement she owned. Thus far, no man had been able to resist the allure of fiddling with its settings and testing its precision.

Ash closed the door and stalked toward her. "I want you so badly."

"D-do you?"

His hands moved over her ribs and settled just under her breasts. "You feel good. So delicate." He drew a ragged breath. "I'm going to break you."

It took all her willpower not to thrust her breasts into his hands. Her nipples ached for his fingers to squeeze them. She squirmed, wanting to feel his skin on hers. "Ashlin, please. Don't stop."

"Say it again." He pulled her head back so she had to look him in the face. "I want to hear it, over and over."

"Ashlin, Ashlin, Ashlin," she gasped.

He met her open mouth with his. She reveled in the hot slickness of his tongue. No other man would smell or taste like him. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, unraveling her chignon, pulling at her bodice, grasping the nape of her neck. He nudged her chin up and nipped the skin at her collarbone. She gasped.

"Celeste, God, you taste good." He was hard as stone against her. She moved a fraction across his length but he caught her hips. "Not now, darling. There are too many things yet to do."

She whimpered into his open mouth. He pulled her to a nearby chair and settled her on top of him. Her legs spread open over his hips as cool night air sneaked up her hiked gown and tormented her hot center.

She tried to squeeze her legs together for relief. He caught her thighs. "No," he commanded, spreading them again. His hands encircled her knees, preventing her escape.

His face was level with her breasts. Neither the thin material of her gown nor her chemise disguised her nipples protruding in hard points against the fabric. He licked one until fabric clung to the dark circle. "Do you like that, darling? Do you like it when I touch you?"

He sounded like someone else. So did she, when she whimpered again.

Tugging her bodice by inches, he revealed a tiny birthmark on the top of her left breast. "Well, well. What have we here?" His tongue ran over the imperfection. "God, Celeste. I want you so badly." His hands curved around her breasts. He weighed them in turn, scratching his chin against the underside of each as he licked her in a wide, silken circle. "So perfect," he murmured, brushing his lips over them. "Round and soft. So big for such a slender woman. Look, I cannot even get my hand around it."

She looked. Her white breast was pale against the sun-warmed skin of his hand. Her nipple was caught between two fingers. Gently, he squeezed them together. She inhaled sharply. Her hips twisted on his lap as she writhed to find release.

He gathered her in his arms and stood. He continued to appear every inch the gentleman; not even a wrinkle dared crease his cravat. He carried her toward the side of the bed and set her on her feet. He leaned in and nuzzled her cheek, thrusting his hands in her hair and shaking out her red curls, cascading them over her bare breasts and her back.

A satisfied smile quirked his lips as he removed her garments one by one. When he reached her garters he paused. Then he dropped to his knees, removed her slippers and rolled her stockings down her thighs and over her calves, his fingertips grazing her skin as he inched them off.

He rose. He advanced on her until their bodies touched, hers naked, his fully clothed. She buried her face in his shoulder, allowing him to support her as he slowly, tortuously explored the curve of her hip and the slit of her bottom.

"I want to see you," he said.

She stepped back obediently. The desire pooling in his eyes made her feel beautiful, as beautiful as when he'd tried to give her fresh cut blossoms from his garden.

He threaded his hand through her long hair and tangled his fingers in the curls. "You are the most perfect woman I've ever seen." Using her hair as a rope, he pulled her head back to expose her neck. The barest whisper of his lips against her skin spread gooseflesh along her arms and tightened her nipples. He lifted one heavy breast and admired its nipple swelled to a rosy crest. His breath heated her flesh. "Look how you respond to me. Oh, Celeste..."

Like a man opening a treasured gift, he gently pressed her to lie on the bed and arranged her hair in a fiery halo around her. "You're not shy," he observed, lowering his long body over hers.

She couldn't be. Not when he made her _feel_.

She wrapped her legs around his hips and slid her arms around his broad back, suddenly wanting him naked against her. But his clothing formed a solid barrier between them. Even his neck was guarded by his cravat.

"There, there," he murmured as she jutted her hips to rub against his rigid shaft through his breeches. "So eager, and I have yet to begin."

His dark hair was mussed, his expression taut with need. His breath was every bit as uneven as hers. He thrust his hips against her, watching her eyes widen and then close with pleasure.

"This is so much better than I had imagined," he whispered hoarsely.

"Me, too," she murmured.

He drew back and grinned at her. "Is that so?" Then his face disappeared as his body descended between her legs. His cheek paused at her flat belly. He pressed the side of his face against the concave dip beneath her navel and drew a breath jagged with need. Then the folds of his cravat tickled her as he continued his southward path.

She grasped the coverlet in greedy handfuls, spreading her knees in wanton welcome.

"Do you want this?" he asked, his breaths heavy against her sex.

"Yes, yes, yes." She would explode against his tongue the instant he set it against her swelling flesh.

"Like this?" He licked the inside of her thigh.

Her only reply was a low, needy moan.

"Like this?" He drew a wet oval around her sex. His tongue dipped just a heartbeat before tracing the juncture of her thigh.

"Mmmh--hh--no." She dug her nails into the coverlet and squeezed her eyes shut. How could she come against his mouth?

"Look at me."

She shook her head against the pillow.

"Celeste, darling. I want you to see how badly I want to taste you."

"No."

"No?" He laughed low. "I promise you, I do."

"I mean--I can't--Oh! Please, Ash. Do what you must." Her hips were twisting violently against the sheets. But she needed something more substantial from him.

"What I _must_?" He brushed a kiss over her hard little pearl and she cried out in ecstasy.

"Celeste," he called as she writhed. "Celeste."

She opened her eyes as he'd asked. She drank in the sight of him pleasuring her. A sheen had formed on his brow as his tongue worked her sensitive flesh. In one powerful, tight explosion, her entire body tensed. Her fingers tangled in the coverlet. "Oh, Ash!"

After that, she couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe. In the aftermath of the explosion she had only a single word to describe it.

_Ashlin._

**Chapter 21**

****

HAVING HIM CHERISH her body made her feel beautiful, fulfilled in a way she'd never dreamed.

To her horror, tears leaked from her eyes. Foolish woman that she was, she couldn't stop them. How could she bear to lose him when his interest waned, as it undoubtedly would? How would she ever be able to give herself to another, now that she'd felt so precious with him?

Ash scrambled to lie beside her. He gathered her into his arms. "I'm sorry," he said against her cheek. "I'm so sorry."

Savoring his arms around her, she curled against him. She'd never known such pleasure, or such heartbreak. She pressed her thighs together as though she could keep the aftershocks coming. As if she could keep him.

He stroked her hair until all the tension went out of her. Then he kissed her brow. "Perhaps we should stop."

"No," she protested. "I'm fine."

"I don't want to take advantage of you," he murmured, kneading her shoulders.

"You aren't," she lied.

"Then turn over. Please."

She didn't question it, but did as he bade. He straddled her thighs. With his large hands he massaged the back of her neck, her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine. Edging his body toward her calves, he squeezed her bottom and the backside of her legs. She was languid, tears and tension gone, by the time he completed his self-imposed task.

He rose from the bed. The sound of fabric rustling against fabric sent her onto a new wave of awareness. Mussing her hair around her face to hide her eyes, she peeked through her curls and observed him as he undressed.

There were taller men than Ash, but he stood a good head above most. His shoulders were broad, too broad to peel his coat from them without some trouble. Hungrily, she waited as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and drew off his shirtsleeves. Dark patches of hair, under his arms and sprinkled across his chest, gave him a swarthy appeal. Breeches hugged his thighs, but it was the coin-shaped dent of his navel that drew her attention. She wanted to dip her tongue into it, then lower...

He moved to the edge of the bed. Finally, she would feel his naked chest against hers, warm and comforting, his muscled arms holding her to him as though she were prized.

She reached toward him. Gingerly, she walked her fingers down the flat stones of his abdomen. She let her fingers hover just long enough for him to play the scenario out in his mind.

He grabbed her hand. Questioningly, innocently, she raised an eyebrow. But he didn't answer with words. The lustful way his gaze traveled along her body, pausing over her bottom before traveling back up to her face, told her more than enough. He looked at her as if he'd never seen a naked woman before.

Enjoying the attention, and perhaps wanting to make him suffer for the pleasure he'd caused her, she rolled onto her back and arched her spine. She stretched her arms above her head like a cat, savoring the possession in his eyes. When he looked ready to pounce she turned again, this time onto her side, and gave him an uninterrupted view of the indentation of her spine and the womanly dip of her hips.

He groaned and yanked off his boots. His breeches hit the floor with a swish, quickly followed by his stockings. The musky smell of his unspent seed filled the room and she glanced at his shaft, admiring the proud column jutting toward her. The tip of his smooth head was already wet. He straddled her, turned her onto her back and lifted her hips. She let her knees fall away to reveal the rosy bud he had so wonderfully abused earlier, and gasped when he held the long, wide length of himself against her folds.

Desperately, she lifted her hips higher, inviting him into her slick channel. She begged him to possess her as thoroughly as his eyes promised he would. But he gave her a smile filled with need and jerked away. "Not yet, darling. Let me feel you first."

It became a game, one designed to torment her. "Shh," he'd admonish her, pulling away, only to rub his length against her again. After a several torturous moments, she found his rhythm. Their moans filled the room, each sound rent from their excitement. At last, when she thought she could take no more, he fit himself at her opening and paused.

"Darling." His voice was a struggle of passion at war with honor. "I can stop if you wish it."

"No." She exhaled sharply at the sweet agony of him poised at her opening. She needed him deep within her, claiming her, taking everything she offered, wanting her as badly as she required him. "Please, don't stop now."

"Thank God." He thrust his thick, long shaft into her. She was ready, else he would have been too large, too unrelenting. Instead, he fit perfectly. His low moan vibrated between them.

He waited, his breath ragged, then drove into her a second time. "Ash," she cried, already near climax.

"Dear God, I know," he murmured against her hair. He pumped harder. His hand came between them, curving around her breast.

Her wild cry was a desperate plea for him to never stop.

His shaft swelled in her. Again and again, her body convulsed around it. Riding wave after wave of euphoria, she clenched around him a final time, tightening as if she meant to squeeze out every last drop of his seed.

"Ash, come with me," she said between ragged breaths.

"Darling, I can't--Oh--God--" He covered her body. His mouth found hers. She held him tightly as he battled his release, scratching her nails lightly over the bunched muscles of his shoulders in a silent plea for him to surrender everything: his seed, his heart, his soul. With a final shout, he pulled out of her and exploded into a fistful of sheets. Then he collapsed on top of her.

AFTER A WHILE, he asked, "Am I crushing you?"

She ran her fingertips lightly down his back. He _was_ crushing her, but she welcomed it. "No."

"Good."

Within moments, he was asleep. As his weight settled over her, the imprint of his thumb at her collarbone claimed her as his. For just this one night, she believed it.

She awoke hours later to find herself still covered by his warm body. His fingers idly trailed the curve of her naked hip. After that, they made love slowly, mouths open, taking, giving, discovering each other in the new light of day.

Her first thought upon returning from this euphoria was that he must go _._ Before she became more enamored of him.

Irritatingly, or perhaps disappointingly, she didn't have to make him. After Hildegard brought a repast of toast and chocolate, he was all too ready to leave. He collected his clothing and, with a touch of regret for the creases, drew on the wrinkled affair with as much lordliness as he could muster.

Celeste said, "Until later." She couldn't say good-bye.

As soon as he left, she rose from the bed and began issuing orders. The Dollond was treated to a thorough cleaning. Her bedclothes were washed, aired and remade. To her consternation, it all made her feel less in control, as though her life would now be spent waiting for him.

No. She'd known women who'd fallen into that trap. She was stronger, more experienced. She had friends. She had her sessions with Lucy. She needn't devote herself to the moments Lord Trestin deigned to spend with her.

Resolved, she called for her bath. After a hot soak, she donned her favorite walking gown and set out with a footman. It had been ages since she'd seen Elizabeth. Why had she waited so long to check on her friend?

Belatedly, she recalled Captain Finn had moved Elizabeth to larger accommodations. After inquiring at Sophia's house, she found Elizabeth's new apartments and knocked on the door. An unfamiliar butler showed her into a parlor done in subdued colors. Celeste frowned. The calming gray and green was less jarring, but what of Elizabeth's tastes?

Celeste settled herself on an overstuffed chair only a man could think went well in a formal parlor. She stood again when Elizabeth entered.

"How good it is to see you!" Celeste said with a smile. "I'm embarrassed I haven't come sooner."

Elizabeth stopped just short of Celeste and exhaled, as though harried from whatever task she'd been about, and brushed a wisp of chestnut-colored hair from her face. "It has been an age, hasn't it? I can hardly keep track of the time, let alone which day it is. But look at you! I'm insanely jealous of your lovely cheekbones." She puffed out her own cheeks. "I eat every time Jonathan eats."

"Jonathan?" Celeste tried to keep the censure from her voice.

"Oh, that." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Family names are so important to our men, aren't they?"

Elizabeth had been proud enough to carry on her family's name back in Devon, but it didn't seem worth mentioning now. Celeste stepped forward and hugged her. "Is everything well?" she asked against Elizabeth's ear.

"Why? Is anything the matter with you?" Elizabeth pulled away to examine Celeste from arm's length. "You're not eating!"

Celeste would _not_ burst into tears. "Jessica Frost--well, she made some horrid remarks about my age the other night. I simply haven't been able to enjoy biscuits as I used to."

Elizabeth snorted. "I may be living in utter seclusion, Celeste, but I haven't gone blind. It's him, isn't it?" She angled her temple in the direction of Mayfair, as though she could perceive Ash through the walls and streets separating them.

Celeste pulled her hands away and walked toward the window. "I hardly think of him."

"You forget how pathetically I pined for Nicholas. But it all worked out in the end, didn't it?"

Celeste spun around. She looked hard at her friend. Dark circles rimmed the delicate skin beneath Elizabeth's gray eyes. Her dress wrinkled in ways that would have horrified her just months earlier. But her tired eyes glowed, and a thin smile lifted her mouth.

"What is it you desire, Celeste? Because you must believe in it, want it with all your heart, or it won't come to pass."

"I want Lord Trestin to love me," Celeste blurted. She clapped a hand to her mouth.

Elizabeth's happiness dimmed. "You shouldn't have even met a man like him."

Celeste cracked a wry smile. "What happened to believing?"

Elizabeth sighed. "Unless you're willing to have his baby..."

And so they'd come full circle, back to the argument that had precipitated this entire endeavor. Elizabeth believed in scheming, and Celeste didn't.

" _My_ father walked away," she reminded Elizabeth. "Having a baby didn't help my mother at all."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Some men are more honorable than others. I think your Lord Trestin would do the right thing by you."

But was that the right thing to do by _him_? Forgetting her sponge when she well knew the consequences was unforgivable. But she couldn't fault Elizabeth for the decision she'd made, now that it was done. The baby was beautiful, Captain Finn delighted, and Elizabeth living her dream. It would take decades to know if it was indeed the _right thing_.

Elizabeth's voice broke into her maudlin thoughts. "I'm sure Nicholas would marry me, if he wasn't already spoken for."

Celeste pressed her lips together. What could she say to that? Captain Finn was unlikely to have the chance to prove himself one way or the other--Celeste certainly wasn't wishing an early demise on his poor wife. She could only watch and hope the situation turned out the best way possible for each of the people involved.

As for her own situation...she supposed she could at least be glad Trestin wasn't _married_.

Realizing that wasn't likely to be the case forever...only depressed her more.

**Chapter 22**

__

HE DID NOT come that night. Or the next, or the next. She shouldn't have expected him to. She was his mistress, nothing more. Yet every day without word was torture. Every night, interminable. She dreamed of him. His smell, his charm, the warmth of his smile.

Waking to find herself alone became a nightmare. It wasn't long before sleep eluded her entirely and she became too withdrawn to eat. Even Elizabeth stopped paying calls, though Celeste kept her appointments with Lucy, who had taken to her lessons in seduction surprisingly well.

Despite Celeste's daily _t ete-a-tetes_ with her protegee, emptiness threatened to swallow her. How many more nights could she go on waiting, wondering? Yet how could she end it, knowing this _affaire_ was the only reason she could hope to see him at all?

When he finally arrived again, it was nothing like the first time. Their hollow meeting left her even more bereft than she'd felt before. She had only a shadow to remember him by, a warm, brandy-laced silhouette. For though they were not strangers, he barely spoke a word.

She'd put an end to agreements before, and for lesser reasons. No money had exchanged hands. They had no contract, for she had yet to sign the bold declaration waiting on her desk. But she didn't tell him their tryst was over. She didn't doubt he would come again, and she couldn't deny she wanted him to visit her.

He did not stay the night. And he did not say when he would return.

She was impossible to understand. Was it Elizabeth's certainty that there was no hope for her that made her maudlin? Or was it her own disappointment in herself, for allowing herself to want something so badly that she'd given in and experienced it, knowing it would hurt in the end?

One day passed. A day she could have ended it, but she didn't. All her bravado, all her promises to herself during to put an end to it before she lost what little was left of her pride, seemed to die in the pink rays of evening's light. Then two days went by, for Thursday was a day a man could reasonably be expected to visit his paramour, and she wouldn't tell him to stay away on a day he might come.

But though Friday was generally held to be a good day to inform one's lover his attentions were no longer required, it was just as good a day to pull oneself together and make the rounds of female acquaintances. Elizabeth was delighted to see Celeste, as were her mantua-maker and milliner.

This was how it got to be Saturday, at which point it had been almost four days since his last visit. Four days was almost forever, in a man's mind. At four days, she could expect him to visit at any moment. For if he was distancing himself, four days was a long time to be stalwart, and if he had simply forgotten her--as men were wont to do--then his needs should bring him to her shortly.

But they didn't, at least not on the fourth day. At five days he officially became unpredictable. But if she called things off now she'd lose credibility, for he would believe her to be put out over his lack of attention and fail to see the point--that she was better than _this_.

Really, she could do nothing after five days but wait for him to come to her. If she was to keep any vestige of pride, she must be patient. That was how she came to be resting against the massive headboard of her bed, spectacles on, rereading _Pride and Prejudice_ when he arrived on the sixth day.

She looked up slowly to hide the staccato thumping of her heart. She didn't remove her spectacles or adjust the simple knot of hair tied at the nape of her neck. There was no need to check her night rail or the bedcover across her lap, for though her underthings left little to the imagination, her robe was both warm and discreet.

In short, she was at home. He had interrupted her, and for that he owed her something.

She folded her page over and put the book aside. Surprisingly, she felt more power than she had in a long while.

"I'm sorry," he said. His eyes searched hers, looking for accusation. She schooled her expression. If he found censure, he would flee. Men always bolted at the first sign of a paramour's pique.

She shouldn't care if he left. It would be better that way. A lie if she said she didn't, but one she must tell herself.

"A good first effort, my lord," she replied archly. "But let's see if you can do better." Pushing the covers aside, she rose to meet him face-to-face. Face-to-neck. As if she needed reminding he was the one in command.

He cocked his head at her. "How so?"

It was infuriating, this pretense that he didn't know the anguish he'd caused her. All men played at it when it suited them. She drew a breath. _I have not heard from you in five days. I have been moldering here for almost a week and you have done nothing to reassure me you even thought of me once while you were gone._

Of course, she couldn't say this. She would sound exactly as a man expected a slighted woman to sound: demented. Instead she focused on the strong line of his jaw until she collected herself.

"My lord, I wasn't expecting you." She folded her arms across her body. "What would you have done if I was not at home?" _What would you have done if I was not at your beck and call?_

"There are only a few other places you might be," he replied reasonably, taking her hand. His thumb caressed her knuckles. Her right arm remained protectively over her belly.

"Would you have sought me out?" A tiny lurch in her heart betrayed her pleasure at the thought.

He smiled at her, so handsome in his evening finery. "I would have waited," he said, his voice a caress, "as it couldn't be that long before you came home."

She frowned. She wanted him to admit he cared whether she was at home or not. "Gordo wouldn't have allowed you entrance after hours."

"Good thing, then, that I wouldn't have asked." He raised an eyebrow, reminding her that he'd never waited for permission to call on her. Such as this very meeting in her bedchamber, which he had so arrogantly initiated without notice.

She stood up straighter, tugging her hand from his. "I have rooms for what we are about to do. He shouldn't have let you up without asking me."

Trestin looked pained. "I thought you wanted me in your bedchamber."

She was momentarily thrown. "I never said that."

"You didn't need to." He moved closer, invading her space. "This floor is your personal lair. It's evident in the decor and the way you are at ease. Look," he flicked the spectacles up from her nose before gently returning them, "you have no pretenses here. I rather like it."

She brushed his hand away. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Should I have sent word ahead?" He wore the perplexed look of a man who wondered if he should not have come.

"No! Yes! No!" She hated when she couldn't decide what to do with him. She was a creature at odds with herself.

"Which is it to be?" he asked gently.

She took a step away from him. "You can't just come here when you feel like it."

"I can't?" He advanced on her. "Because I rather thought that's the agreement we had."

Her brain muddled as the intoxicating smell of him enveloped her. "Nay, my lord," she said a little less emphatically than she meant to. "This is not an inn."

He grinned. "Are you sure? Because you're making it sound so. 'Send word. Don't assume there is space. Bring your own towels.'"

He was charming her and it was working. She tried to regain control of the situation. "I deserve--"

He angled his head, listening intently.

She stuttered. What demands could a mistress make? He had every right, just as he'd said.

Nervously she stammered, "You interrupted my reading."

"I can see that." He indicated the dog-eared book on her bed. "Is it good?"

She shrugged. "If you enjoy novels where the woman achieves the upper hand and the man must come crawling back, then yes."

"Those are the very best." He chuckled, deflecting her pathetic attempt to rebuke him. And she let him. _Stupid, stupid woman._

She crossed her arms under her breasts. "Can I help you out, my lord?"

"In fact..." He took a step forward, closing the scant distance, and idly caressed the points of her elbows with his thumbs. Warmth slid in a delicious wave over down her back as he pulled himself toward her. "I was just thinking how adorable you look in those spectacles."

"Th-these?" She touched the wire bridge, subconsciously pushing them higher on her nose. All thoughts of tossing him on his arse fled like little cowardly soldiers.

He nodded, tugging her closer still. Long lashes shielded his eyes. "It's very hard to think when you look like Miss Smythe."

She fought to keep her wits about her. "But I never wore these in the country. At least, not in front of you."

"Ah, but you _were_ prim." He said it as though she'd dressed in Devon to seduce him.

A low laugh rumbled through his chest, causing her to look up into his eyes. _Mistake._

He continued his slow seduction of her elbows, circling his thumbs in soft caresses. "But there is something about these little frames..." A deep, heavy breath momentarily clouded her thin lenses. "I find them very, very attractive, Miss Gray."

Her pulse doubled. Evidently catching her in modest dishabille was, for him, as heady as if he had caught her at her bath.

She stepped back, putting space between them. "You shouldn't have come," she said firmly. "I wasn't expecting you."

"But aren't unexpected pleasures the most stimulating?"

She wasn't going to fall for the gleam in his eye, nor the gravelly promise in his voice. "If you want to wait in my sitting room, I will rejoin you after I've made myself presentable."

She couldn't seem to make herself turn him away. She needed to replace the last sordid memory with another beautiful one like the first.

She had his full attention now. He raised his eyebrow suggestively. "I quite like what you're wearing."

She pointed toward the door to her sitting room. "No doubt you would like me in a burlap sack."

" _Just_ a sack?"

"Out. Now." When he didn't turn, she pushed him lightly toward the door. Finally, he obeyed.

Finally, she had control.

Somewhat.

_One more night._ Was it lunacy? Yes. She really must do something about it in the morning.

She sprang into action, pulling on a pair of white lace stockings. As she fastened them to her garters she mentally reviewed the contents of her wardrobe. Everything seemed too much. She didn't want him to think she was _trying_ to obtain his interest.

As she loosely pulled the laces of a horribly expensive, terribly plain white corset, she regarded the bespectacled, bookish figure staring back in her full-length mirror. If she made prim and proper suggestive, it wasn't intentional. It was simply the person she was when she wasn't attempting to impress a man.

Well, not putting a _lot_ of effort into it.

A simple blue gown edged in silk replaced her night rail. Conservative even by the _ton_ 's standards, it was one she might wear to spend an afternoon in her study. It also complemented her wire spectacles well. Those she would leave on.

Anything that made a man look that hotly at a woman was worth keeping.

Very well, perhaps she was putting a _little_ effort into it.

Shoes weren't necessary to pad around her home. Eschewing any, she quickly shook her hair out of its knot and parted it on one side. A vigorous brushing made it shine. She tied it back into a knot and pushed a pin through it. No cosmetics, though she did pinch her cheeks and mist lavender fragrance onto the curves of her neck. Strangely, she felt like she was meeting a young lad behind the fountain for his first tryst. Except he wasn't young, nor virginal, nor someone she could walk away from after a quick fumble.

As she came into the doorway of her sitting room, she took stock.

Ash prowled the thick carpet before her fireplace. Given the way he wore her floors, he must not like being at her mercy any more than she liked being caught off guard.

She walked into the room, drawing his attention. He stopped and stared at her for several moments before he growled, "That's not fair. I pay for the right to believe you're someone else."

Celeste drew herself up. "I have the right to be myself."

He stormed toward her. "I came here for Celeste. Not an alluringly staid minx." _Not Miss Smythe._

His rejection was confusing. "I _am_ Celeste, my lord." Did he really think there were two of her? A good girl and a bad?

She paused. Were there?

No, there was only her. The good and the bad, together. He must accept her wholly or not at all.

"Damn you, you're not." He visibly struggled to reconcile the woman before him with the courtesan he'd come to see. "Not like that. Take that ridiculous garb off now."

She retreated around her favorite chair, one of two oversized wingbacks set at complementing angles before the fireplace. A crackling fire warmed her skirts.

He stood in the center of the carpet. In the last few months he'd become more muscular, likely due to his appointments at Jackson's. But it was his face she held dear. Not the hard line of his jaw or his curving lips or the warming brandy of his eyes. It was the furrow of his brow, the regret in his expression. His deep, indrawn breaths as he struggled to control himself. If they were two people from two more similar worlds, he would love her. Because they weren't, he didn't.

She patted the overstuffed cushion of the wingback chair, inviting him to sit. "Would you care to read a bit with me, my lord?"

With a volatile exhale he exclaimed, "Read? Read! You think I can just sit there quietly and read? Infuriating, crazy minx." He advanced, wedging her between the chair and the fireplace. "Had I wanted to spend the night _reading,_ I would have stayed home."

"It seems a bit late for that." When he looked ready to rage again, she added, "This isn't my __ fault. I'm sure I did not invite you--"

"So you've said several times."

"--therefore, I should be able to go on as I was. I think it is rather generous of me to allow you to join me."

He set one hand on the mantel and one on the cushion beside hers, effectively trapping her. "If this is some ridiculous game, stop. I'm interested, Celeste. I'm damn interested. Playing coy buys you nothing."

Her back arched as she attempted to keep distance between them. "You can't just barge into my house and demand I spread my legs. That is for paying customers only."

"Will you stop saying that?" A less disciplined man would have yelled, but he ground out each word, as though speaking slowly would help her understand. "You're not just some doxy. I despise it when you act like you are. You're better than that, Celeste. You know it, too."

"Yes, yes I know that! I know that so much it hurts. I am worth more than this...this cruelly impersonal affair. But do _you_ know it? You come here when you will and order me into bed. You have no interest in me other than what you can take between the sheets. Would you ever marry me? Now that you know what I am?"

She needed to hear him say it. Needed every one of her foolish dreams to come crashing down with one harsh, unyielding blow.

He looked aghast. "Celeste. I didn't mean--"

She half turned. She knew he didn't. He didn't _mean_ to hurt her. He'd been clear about his intentions from the outset. She'd never expected this to be anything but the cruelly impersonal _affaire_ she'd accused him of it being. But she was nearly sick from hearing it said, anyway. Or not said, as the case may be.

He moved his hand to settle over hers. Tentatively, as though afraid she would bolt.

The attempt to comfort her felt like pity.

"I shouldn't have come," he said quietly. His face was pained, handsome features drawn, his body tense.

She nodded mutely. "It was a fool's game to think--to think this can last."

"Yet I cannot imagine leaving."

_Hope._ Again. Nothing had changed, yet those simple words were enough to restore her hope. Stupid, stupid hope.

For, fool that she was, she always wanted a few more hours of hope.

She shrugged and wiped her eyes before her lashes flicked droplets on her spectacle lenses. Goodness, she never cried. Except over him, it seemed. Had he taken her precious box and smashed it into a thousand splinters, so that she wouldn't be able to hide her emotions in it until she'd built a new, stronger fortress?

"I can read to you." He chuckled, but it was forced.

She faced him. She _didn 't _want him to leave, not yet. " _Pride and Prejudice?_ There isn't another book in this house unless my servants are secretly addicted to lurid novels."

"Shall we investigate that possibility?" He sounded intrigued, as though a lurid novel was precisely what he required at the moment.

An unbidden smile pulled at her lips. It wasn't too difficult to imagine Hildegard with her large nose in a book, but to be honest, Celeste had only been joking.

The thought of him reading a lurid novel aloud was enough to make her want to try to locate one. "Perhaps in the servants' quarters?"

"A very reasonable place to look." He offered his arm. His eyes were dark with mixed emotion. Relief that they had more time, and regret they did not have forever. Or so that was what she wanted to see.

When she tentatively reached to touch his sleeve, he caught her fingers and laced them tightly through his. Her heart pounded. She let him pull her through the darkened house bittersweetly and without comment, pausing only to murmur directions.

He filled the silence with mindless chatter, apparently well-read on the subject of lurid novels. It was a charming assault on a heart already weakened by him, and by the time they located a suitable book, it was clear Celeste would surrender entirely to him tonight. He made her laugh, he made her cry. And now he was going to read to her.

When they returned to Celeste's sitting room, he pushed the chairs together and dragged a foot stool to their feet. She fetched two blankets from her bedchamber and curled into one of the large wingbacks warmed by the fire.

He removed his boots and propped them by the door, then padded over in his stockings. He sat in the second chair. For two chapters she admired the strong curve of his jaw and the brush of dark lashes above his cheeks, but soon her eyes grew heavy. She laid her head against the wingback cushion and let his rough voice wash over her like waves.

She woke when he pressed his cool lips to her brow. The kiss heated slowly, first on the bridge of her nose, then the high point of her cheek, and finally her mouth. He dragged his fingertips across the line of collarbone where the modest neckline of her gown met her bare skin. She shivered and opened her eyes. He stood over her, handsome face illuminated by the slow flicker of dying firelight.

"Come to bed," he said softly.

She accepted his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. He deftly slipped the pearl buttons of her bodice free. Then his fingers searched for and found the straight pins holding the front flap into place.

He turned her to unfold the dress from her shoulders. It fell away in a whisper of fabric.

She waited, savoring the slow build of anticipation. Her nipples hardened to tingling peaks. Her eyes closed. The soft, hot flesh between her legs responded, sending tremors of pleasure through her.

His breathing became ragged behind her.

"My lord," she whispered, impatient for his touch. "Is something amiss?"

He laughed softly. "I'm just looking. I believe your underthings cost more than the upkeep of my house."

She chuckled. "And how are you finding them, my lord?"

"Money well-spent," he growled into her ear. His tongue seared the line of her shoulder blade. With a groan, he gathered her to his chest and pressed his rigid member to the folds of her chemise. Her backside molded to him. He breathed deeply of her hair and slid his hands to cup her breasts. She moaned.

"No," he said gruffly, stopping her when she tilted her bottom to rub the solid length of him. "Slowly."

Painstakingly slowly. He removed her garments one by one, folding them neatly across the chair. When she stood naked it was her turn to watch him undress. His muscular body came to life in the firelight. His staff jutted proudly from its thatch of curls. She ached to feel it in her hands and slide his skin over the stiff rod, until he could take no more.

She sank into the chair and beckoned him closer. Hungrily, he came toward her, proud member bobbing as he stalked her and scaled the chair. His knees pressed into the arms as he brought his manhood to her face. He smelled of musk and need.

Gently, he spread his palm over the crown of her head and pushed her until her lips were even with his cock. He nudged her parted lips with its velvety head and grabbed the wingbacks in both hands as she took him fully into her mouth. "Oh, God, Celeste. Oh, God."

She sucked him slowly, torturously. He fought to remain still but his passion won out. He bucked his loins against her face, thrusting his cock deeper into her mouth. She licked him as he quivered, building toward release. Faster she took him. She cupped his balls with one hand. The other wrapped around his rod with firm pressure. She kept her eyes open, watching him watch her.

Musky seed slid over her tongue. A taste of what was to come. With a roar, he dragged his shaft from her lips and lifted her from the chair. He spun and took her place in the seat, then pulled her to straddle him. He greedily grabbed his thick shaft and positioned her wet folds over him. Then with an animal cry he brought her down. She braced her hands against the frame and opened for him, a sharp gasp ripping from her as his hard length found succor.

He brushed his thumb against the pink bud rising from her curls. Within moments she exploded. Her inner muscles kneaded him as she climaxed, pulling him deeper.

He gritted his teeth. "God, Celeste. You make me want to come."

"Is that so, my lord?" she murmured breathlessly. She watched him beneath her lashes, breathing hard, her damp breasts jiggling as she increased the pace.

He watched those quivering handfuls of flesh, never ceasing his assault on her sensitized pearl or his bucking demands to be taken deeper. "God, yes. _Yes_."

She leaned forward and flattened her palms against his iron-like chest to ride him harder. Intense pleasure rewarded her, spreading through her like liquid heat. She clenched around him as tight as she could and savored his fingers digging into her hips in response.

"Now, Celeste. _Now._ "

She pushed her hips against his one last time, then scrambled off his lap. Falling between his knees she took him back into her mouth. He watched her hungrily as she wrapped her mouth around him and drove him deep into her throat.

"Oh, _God_." He thrust his hands into her hair. Gooseflesh spread over his thighs and he gasped for breath. She nearly choked with the depth of him.

When his seed ceased pumping, she rolled her tongue over his silken flesh and the flat underside of his head until he jerked away.

She smiled, pleased with herself, and trailed her fingertip down his brow to the tip of his nose. "You're welcome, my lord."

He made a guttural noise. Then he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back onto his lap, wrapping her in his arms and holding her against his chest.

Despite his arms around her, she felt empty. These visits in the middle of the night weren't enough. She needed more of him. She wanted to see him in daylight, wanted to laugh as she strolled on his arm. Attend dinners with her friends. Be with him any place where she would know she was more to him than this turn between the sheets.

He had made it clear there was nothing more for her than this.

When he awoke a short while later, she handed him his clothes. "Good night, my lord."

He stared, dumbfounded. "That's all? I'm dismissed?"

She wrapped her arms around herself, then thought better of it and retrieved the blanket from the seat of her chair. She fashioned it around her nude body and lifted her chin. "Yes. You may go."

He opened his mouth. Hurt and confusion darkened his eyes. But she wouldn't be persuaded to let him stay. Forcing him to take his pleasure and leave was the only way to pretend this was a business arrangement. For it had become pathetically undeniable that she'd made the egregious mistake of developing a _tendre_ for her protector.

No. She'd done much, much worse.

He finally accepted she truly meant for him to leave. She crawled naked into her bed, alone. The smell of him on her skin brought back every poignant memory of his hands on her. Ash was quickly becoming something she needed, like air or water or her imported French soap.

_Foolish girl._

She was in love with him. Yet these midnight calls were slowly killing what little of her heart she had left.

WITH EVERY DROP of blood in him, Ash didn't want to go. But she was adamant that he leave, and he felt too guilt-ridden to stay.

Good God, he was reprehensible. Why had he encouraged a domestic illusion he had no intention of making real? Reading to her before the fire, as cozy as man and wife! A pair of spectacles and a prim dress didn't make her a _lady_. And when she'd taken his prick in her mouth and brought him to ecstasy--God's teeth, she'd left no doubt in his mind she was the farthest from a lady he could find.

He walked the short distance to his coach, more confused than he'd felt when he'd first arrived. He couldn't keep pretending he was only testing himself. He _relished_ clandestine, forbidden sex. She'd found a way into the deepest, darkest part of him, and until this moment, he'd felt happier than he'd ever been.

All the more reason to stop their relationship at man and courtesan. He couldn't _marry_ her. She ought not to make him feel guilty for it. And yet, blast it all, he did feel as though he was using her, keeping her behind a closed door for his own selfish reasons.

He cringed, recalling the last time he'd darkened her doorway, almost a week ago now. He'd sought her out in the blackest hour of night, desperate to feel her, single-minded in his resolve to have her again. He'd thirsted for her, hungered for a reprise of their first coupling, but he'd been too afraid to make love to her again.

He'd taken her roughly, instead. Without gentle touches. Without promising he'd return.

Guilt ate at him. He should not have treated her so. And yet, what if Montborne was right? What if he did love her? What would he do if he could only ever want this one, unsuitable woman--how the devil would he take a wife?

There had seemed no middle ground. For six nights after that sordid coupling, Ash had stayed away. Out of shame and fear, and his empty longing for more. Always more.

Tonight, he'd realized that he might not see her until the next night, or maybe never, if he didn't come to her soon. She would tire of his games. He would be too ashamed to return. He'd been allowing his emotion to rule him, when cold, hard logic would suffice.

She was his mistress, nothing more. A trained professional, one who surely couldn't care if he visited or not. And _he_ was her protector, insomuch as a lesser, impoverished lord could protect a woman who needed no one.

Yet he couldn't help remembering the pretty Miss Smythe who'd walked with him in Devon. The soft parting of her lips when she'd laughed. The way she'd taken to his sniping sisters, even when he'd really wished she wouldn't.

She hadn't shared these parts of herself with other men. Her body, perhaps, but her heart?

No. She felt something for him. The regret that had dulled her eyes tonight wasn't a trick of his imagination.

_" Would you marry me? Now that you know what I am?"_

He'd never realized how completely a few words could terrify him. She was strong, his Miss Smythe. She was close to concluding he wasn't good for her. It was only a matter of time before she dug in her heels and barred her door. Perhaps he ought to let her, for he had little to offer her, and nothing she wanted.

His stomach clenched. She hadn't sent him packing yet, but she would.

He turned to gaze at her terraced house. The only light beckoned to him from a square window on the upper floor. He should be in there, with her. But he couldn't go up. Their disparity was not his fault, and no matter how he wished her past otherwise, she must agree that as a former courtesan, she was not fit to be his viscountess.

His heart constricted, rejecting the truth just as surely as hers had done. If he wed her, his sisters would be unmarriageable. His family name would be ruined. He would never be able to bring his wife into Town, and their children would be tainted, little better than bastards.

Being ostracized from Town didn't trouble him. In the foreseeable future, he could think of no reason to be in London for any length of time. The former, however, was a noose, and the latter, terrifying. He couldn't risk his sisters' chances for good marriages, not when they were so close to spinsterhood already. He longed for them to have families of their own.

And because he refused to jeopardize their future offspring, he needn't worry about the effects Celeste would have on his own.

Perhaps she couldn't even bear children. She was above thirty years of age.

He climbed into his coach and tapped on the roof, his stomach suddenly heavy. He'd known there were more than enough reasons why he couldn't marry Celeste, but thinking through them all at once while the pain in her eyes was still fresh in his mind made his situation feel hopeless.

The crack of a whip sounded. The coach lurched into motion. He settled against the squab, turning over idea after idea as he searched for the most logical answer. There had to be a solution, one agreeable to all. He couldn't marry Celeste. Keeping her as his mistress after he married someone else was out of the question. He couldn't hurt a woman the way his father had hurt his mother. He'd find the right woman or he'd take no wife at all.

Which was it to be, then?

The answer came to him without pause. He'd rather have Celeste.

Outside the coach window, terraced houses blurred into each other. In this part of town, there were mistresses behind most of these closed doors. Kept women, who, unlike Celeste, depended on a protector. He smiled grimly, recalling how adamantly she'd refused to accept his money. His beautiful little dove answered to no one, for she owned her own property and paid her own way.

Remembering the cottage she'd loved so well, an answer suddenly came to him. He _could_ have her. It would be easy for her to move into the cottage she already owned and adored. Wasn't it his fault she'd fled Brixcombe in the first place? He could bring her back. Then he could visit her there whenever he wished, none of this waiting until the middle of the night business. She would be his permanent mistress and he would never marry. It would be an easy sort of arrangement, all parties satisfied.

He smiled wanly to himself in the darkened interior of the coach. He could live beside the woman he loved. His sisters would be no worse off than they were today. He and Celeste could retire to Brixcombe and never look back; it could all be done in a fortnight.

He flexed his hand, squeezing his knee. He had to ask her soon. Before she withdrew from their arrangement.

His excitement dimmed. He had two sisters. He knew something of the way women's minds worked. Women didn't aspire to second-class positions, even if what he was prepared to offer Celeste far outshone any reasonable expectation she should have on him.

But he had to ask. He needed to know if she loved him. He had to hear her say with her own lips that she would be his forever, for he couldn't risk losing her a second time.

Even if he deserved it.

**Chapter 23**

****

TWO DAYS LATER, Ash still hadn't broached the subject with Celeste. He dipped his pen into an inkpot and stared blindly at the correspondence spread over his desk. Asking Celeste to give up her life in London when he wasn't prepared to give her everything in return was a dangerous bet. It could turn badly in a second and he'd be left without her company at all.

He scratched through the last line he'd written to his solicitor, then crumbled the missive altogether. As long as she allowed him into her life, he'd be terrified of offending her. What if she left him for good?

"They say you've taken up with Celeste Gray," Montborne drawled, sidling into the doorway of Ash's library.

Excellent. Just what he needed. The Gospel of Montborne.

Ash concentrated on the blank page before him, not bothering to look up. "A man is allowed to sow his oats here and there," he reminded Montborne defensively. "Even soggy ones."

"I did say that. When you were looking for a few nights with a bored countess, I even agreed with myself. But taking on a courtesan for a mistress? I told them they're mad."

Ash settled his palms onto the arms of his chair, weary of this blackguard's moralizing. "And if it's true?"

"Then you need to stop it." Montborne ambled further into the room. "It doesn't set a good example for your sisters."

"I hardly envision my sisters following in these footsteps," Ash drawled.

"I thought you would care."

"I do," Ash defended himself, "but why would my nighttime activities concern them? It's all very discreet. How would they even know?"

"Of course they know, you ninny. You're all they have."

Ash toyed with his signet ring and scrutinized the marquis. Did his sisters truly notice his nighttime comings and goings? Or was it only _Montborne_ who cared?

Montborne's handsome face scowled. "Your apple is rolling closer and closer to the tree and I fear theirs are beginning to rot, too."

He closed the remaining distance and set his hands on the edge of Ash's oak desk. "When was the last time you really looked at your sisters? A week? A month? Have you seen them at all since you arrived? All you think about is _her_. I tried to warn you. You didn't listen. A new habit that is becoming tedious, I might add. _When was the last time you played escort to your sisters?_ "

It took all of Ash's control to keep from growling at his friend. He hated being compared to his father. Hated more that it was true; he _was_ following in those ill-fated footsteps, and they seemed a perfect fit.

"I've missed a few routs. The girls attend in the company of our aunt. What is it to you?"

The marquis pounded his fist on the desk. "You neglect them! Your sister needs you. People are beginning to whisper."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"Lucy." Montborne grimaced. "She's turning heads."

Ash was sure he hadn't heard him correctly. "Lucy? My sister, Lucy?"

"Yes. Thank God I finally have your attention. She's the toast of the Season. Normally that wouldn't concern me, but she's flirting like a Vauxhall vixen. She's even gone missing in the middle of assemblies. I've tried to follow her, but she's damned good at disappearing. Something must be done about it. _You_ must do something about it."

Ash's eyes narrowed. It was a damned _convenient_ time for his sister to need him. "Why haven't I heard of this before?"

Montborne exhaled as though it pained him to explain. "It isn't that farfetched to imagine why she hasn't bothered to mention it to you. You'd never approve of her holding a dozen suitors on a leash. That's not even why I'm here, because I don't begrudge her a bit of fun. She's an easy target for rakes, Ashlin. That's why I've come."

Ash dismissed the charge instantly. "That's ridiculous."

The marquis' mouth dropped open. "You know I'm not one to exaggerate--"

"The biggest fabricator of cock-and-bull tales in all of England?"

Montborne's brow furrowed with hurt. "I've only ever had your best interests at heart."

He did look earnest. Still, his claim was absurd. When they'd first arrived in London and Ash had dutifully ferried her from one party to the next, she'd done nothing but decorate the walls. Delilah was even worse, occasionally claiming the headache and refusing to attend altogether.

His impatience for this improbable story grew. Evidently, Montborne would say anything to drive a wedge between him and Celeste. "Your best interests always seem to conflict with what I want," Ash murmured. "Why is that?"

"Mayhap because you can't see what is directly in front of you!" Montborne took a breath, visibly calming himself. "Your sister requires your attention. Listen to me. This once. Please."

"I won't waste my time on nonsense. Lucy is the last girl to attract roues."

"Have I ever led you astray?"

"Yes! You ruined everything!"

The marquis rolled his eyes and rested a palm over his heart. "What a horrible friend I am, making sure you didn't bed a lightskirt by mistake. Tar and feather me all you want, but have some sense. You aren't going to acknowledge her in public, are you?"

"Celeste?" It actually hadn't occurred to him. He'd planned to move her to the country as soon as his sisters were settled. They needn't tell a soul, not formally. He'd much prefer to keep it all a very messy secret, in fact.

Montborne's expression hardened. "Then what are you doing?"

Ash fell silent.

Montborne lowered his voice. "You can't skulk around forever, hiding in her terraced house. Is that what you want? Is that what _she_ wants? Celeste loves dancing and late-night fetes. You're a country mouse. You have nothing in common besides her bed. Move on, Trestin. I'm not maudlin for months on end because I enjoy it. I know it's difficult. But I truly believe the right young lady is out there, somewhere. You don't want _this_."

"Stop telling me what I want." Despite Ash's protest, he couldn't shake the disquieting thought that Montborne was right. Did she love dancing and late-night fetes? He didn't know. She was a complicated twist of needs and desires, and he was surprised to realize he wanted to know her inside and out. To scale the façade and protect the girl who lived inside, scared and alone.

He made a promise then and there that he would acknowledge her as his mistress. Damn the gossips and their wagging tongues. He loved her--as impossible as it was true. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had happened. He only knew that without her, he felt empty.

He missed her.

Montborne raised a blond eyebrow. "You wanted a wife. Go wife-hunting. Don't end up like me, wondering how it all came to this."

Ash recoiled. Leave Celeste? She would have to leave him first. He simply couldn't.

He'd already decided he wouldn't.

But he hated to think how close she was to that. She wanted more from him than he could give, yet he continued to take what she offered. Because he _was_ in love with her. Just not enough.

He shook his head, feeling like a man who must select from a dozen bad choices. "I won't leave her."

Montborne leaned back, distancing himself. "You've changed."

Ash's head shot up. "Is that such an offence?" He flattened his hands on top of his desk and leaned forward. "Who does this concern, Montborne? I'm sure it isn't me. Yes, I have a mistress. I'm like my father, after all. There, I said it. I've given up denying it. You can't accept it, though. Why? Have you done something that makes you feel so guilty, you've decided to offer moral guidance to _me_?"

Montborne set one hand atop the desk and leaned toward Ash. "It's easy to turn the tables, isn't it? _It 's not me, it's you._ But I'm not the one about to ruin my family name. I think you want to _marry_ her. I think you're actually considering it."

Ash rose from his chair, closer than ever to settling this argument with brute strength.

Montborne didn't flinch.

"Of course I want to marry her," Ash said. " _I love her_. But I can't. I won't. Why are you making me say it?"

Montborne slammed his hand against the desk, causing a _whack_ loud enough to be heard in the rest of the house. "Because someone has to stop you. You're obsessed. 'Tis a simple thing, Ashlin. Give her up. Show your sisters what it means to behave with decorum. You used to do it all the time."

Ash's teeth grated together. "Whatever you've done must be damned despicable if you think you can absolve your sin by playing guardian angel to me."

Montborne scowled. "More like bedeviling you into rethinking your intention to ruin your family for a whor--"

Ash had Montborne in a death grip before the last words were said. "I'm going to kill you."

"That's..." Montborne struggled to breathe, "...exactly my point. You make...stupid choices...for her."

Ash loosened his grip enough to prove him wrong. "Stop pushing your guilt off on me."

Montborne coughed against his shoulder though he never stopped glaring at Ash. "I've done nothing wrong. But then, you've never believed that, have you?"

Reluctantly, Ash released him. He couldn't answer that. Not to Montborne's face.

Montborne didn't need him to. He tugged at his coat, righting it, and raised cold eyes to Ash's face. "It's always been 'foolish Montborne,' hasn't it?"

Ash didn't answer.

The marquis' smile was grim. "One day, I'll prove you wrong."

Ash sat back in his chair, his entire body seething. "I'm waiting."

**Chapter 24**

****

DUTY TO HIS family had always been foremost in Ash's mind, guiding him when he would have otherwise given in to the depravity of his tainted soul. Montborne's assertion that he'd forgotten his duty disturbed him more than he would admit.

Ash made a special effort to see his sisters at dinner. He noticed nothing amiss. He dutifully escorted them to Lady Janeson's ball and stood by Lucy all night. Not one man approached.

Nor did Montborne appear. Ash ushered them home after midnight, more convinced than ever that his best friend had turned against him. How could Montborne know firsthand what occurred at events he didn't even grace with his presence?

Later that week, Ash asked Celeste if she enjoyed dancing. Her answering smile unnerved him in a way his sisters' lackluster enthusiasm for his restored attention hadn't. Montborne was right about this much, damn him.

Ash regarded her hopeful face, at a loss how to proceed. He couldn't take her to a _ton_ ball, for she would never be permitted entrance. He wasn't privy to the parties where she would be allowed. It frustrated him to want to make her happy, and not know how.

As always, she soothed him with a warm smile and a look of adoration. He didn't deserve either. Then she snuggled into his arms. That was how he came to be helping her from a luxurious mink coat two days later in the crowded entranceway of Mrs. Galbraith's voucher-only soiree.

"We can go home," Celeste murmured against his ear as he lifted the heavy garment from her delicate shoulders.

"I'm fine." He wouldn't admit he'd rather be anywhere else, mayhap even receiving the worst kind of lecture from Montborne, than preparing to enter the den of dissolution that was this Cyprians' fete. But Celeste had held vouchers for months. When she'd presented them to him as a solution, he hadn't been able to refuse.

He had a feeling he wouldn't be able to refuse her anything.

"Just an hour while I make my rounds," she promised, and without the delay of a proper receiving line, they whisked into the house.

Within minutes, all thoughts of a quick exit left him. He hadn't considered how he'd react to seeing her in her element. There was so much about her that he couldn't possibly understand. It shocked him to see how brightly she shone in a room where she reigned supreme, secure in her status as high courtesan. She was no flavor of the moment, but a woman who drew envy and admiration.

He hadn't expected to enjoy watching her sparkle in a place where he'd sworn never to set foot.

Nor had he predicted how displayed he would feel. He was the bauble on her arm, not the other way around. She was the woman who'd felled the reclusive Lord Trestin without even lifting a finger. All eyes were on them.

She stopped walking without warning. He plowed into her from behind. His gloved hands wrapped around her slim, bare shoulders, sending frissons of possession through him, just as he'd felt outside of the cottage so many weeks ago.

He shouldn't be here, at this fete. But for some reason, the thought made him want to guide her into a curtained alcove and--

"Good God," she said under her breath.

Preparing to slay a dragon or call out an old lover, he pulled himself straight and scanned the room for danger. Nothing. Then he spotted a dark-haired woman in a demi-mask laughing brazenly from within a throng of young men.

"A new member of the Muslin Company," he guessed, squeezing Celeste's shoulders.

"Don't say that." She twisted out of his grip and took a step toward the masked woman.

"Wait." Ash caught her hand. "What's wrong?"

She looked over her shoulder. Her eyes shuttered briefly as if she warred within herself. Then her fear returned. "I must stop her."

Admiration swelled his chest. She saw another woman heading down her same path and wished to caution her. It made his heart full to know she would try to prevent someone else from suffering the way she had.

She tugged her hand in his, trying to free herself from his grip. "I must go--"

"Not here." He pulled her in the other direction. "If you approach her in front of everyone and show your disapproval--however well-intended--she'll only laugh in your face." His jaw clenched. His sisters had taught him how true his advice was.

Her expression pleaded with him to release her. Then she twisted to see the young woman. Her lips parted slightly. "I..."

But she was at a loss, it was clear.

"So long as she's within sight, she's safe enough," he murmured.

Celeste didn't ease. Intent on distracting her lest she startle her quarry, he drew her into the line of dancers forming at the center of the room. The music began, and for the first time Ash understood why everyone except him looked forward to dancing.

It was exquisite. While ensconced on her sofa or engrossed in conversation, they could enjoy each other's company, but as they glided through a waltz, he was acutely aware of her grace and the singular right he had to her person. The pride that went with it filled him. He wanted to shout from the rooftops that this was his woman, damn anyone who tried to take her from him.

Damn Montborne.

As if Ash's thoughts had conjured him, the golden-haired Adonis flashed his voucher at the majordomo as though he were offended to be required to produce it. With an imperious frown, he squared his elegantly-turned shoulders and entered the room.

Ash noticed. Celeste noticed. The girl in the demi-mask noticed. Everyone in the room, it seemed, breathed a sigh of relief to see that the marquis had condescended to visit this little party. As though his presence stamped a seal of approval on their entertainment.

Ash held Celeste tighter. Montborne would have nothing good to say of their attendance.

But he needn't have worried. The marquis advanced on the men racked around the masked girl, scattering them like billiard balls.

Celeste made a squeak of protest.

"Shh." Ash pressed his palm against the small of her back. Three beats later, they were back in sync, gliding along the floor as though it were a smoothly polished banister and not a crude, genteel hall belonging to one of London's premier madams.

The waltz carried him away again. He'd never liked balls or parties. He'd never liked a lot of things. With her, they seemed different. Fresh. He could almost taste how beautiful his life would be with her in it. But how happy would she be if he forced her to live in his ugly shadow?

She wouldn't be happy at all.

Montborne disappeared through a side door with the masked girl in tow. Ash nudged Celeste. "She's gone."

"Gone? Where?" Her alabaster cheek collided with his chin as she twisted to look over her shoulder.

"With Montborne."

"Montborne!" She stepped out of his arms. He was too surprised to prevent her. She darted from the ballroom floor and pushed her way through drunken guests oblivious to her frantic need to escape.

Ash made to follow her, but was cut off by dancers as they whirled 'round him. He waited impatiently for a break in formation.

When the final note twanged, Ash was able to move forward. Celeste had disappeared through the side door. Moments later, he nearly crashed into her as she rushed back into the hall.

"She's gone."

He grimaced. "I'm sorry I told you to wait."

"I-I," she looked back at the door. "I think you were right; she wouldn't have listened. But..."

"It's little comfort now." He squeezed her elbow. "I imagine this is not her first time, little comfort as that may be, either."

She turned to him. Her eyes were wide, imploring him. "We have to find her."

Ash paused. As odd as it seemed to hunt down a woman who had willingly attended this event, he couldn't fault Celeste's desire to help. "Where do you want to start?"

Celeste's eyes filled with love. "Oh, Ash."

He knew then that he would do anything she asked. "Tell me," he urged gently.

"I don't know! This house is a maze and--and--" She looked at him helplessly. "Please."

He didn't know what he was promising, not really. It was all the same when she looked at him like that. "Very well," he said. "We'll find her."

But after a thorough scouring of Mrs. Galbraith's mansion, it was apparent that wherever the girl and Montborne had gone, they were well and securely...alone.

CELESTE WOULD HAVE searched for Lucy elsewhere if she'd been able to slip away from Ash. She had half a mind to try anyway. But Ash wouldn't be set aside and Celeste couldn't bring herself to risk discovery, not now.

She let him into her terraced house and buried her face into his shoulder, hoping against hope Lucy had changed her mind. Though seduction had been precisely the goal of their sessions, Celeste couldn't help but fear the limitations of Lucy's one night with the marquis would become apparent all too soon, all too painfully.

As the first sunlight stirred Celeste's servants to rise, only her gentle prodding convinced Ash he must go. The second the door clicked in place behind him, she threw the covers back. On a different morning, she would have lain abed and allowed the whisper of hope she'd felt last night to weave through her. She might pay a call on Elizabeth and carefully review each nuance of Ash's possessive behavior the night before, wondering if the impossible had happened and he'd come to love her despite her past.

Instead, she prepared for a manhunt.

She drew on plain stockings and a simple gown. Hildegard laced her up. Then she donned a serviceable coat with a wide cowl and went in search of a sturdy pair of walking boots. Locating Lucy gave her something to do. A distraction from remembering how wonderful it had felt to be on Ash's arm. A way to stop herself from wondering if he loved her.

Good God, she'd ruined his _sister_.

She made her way along the early morning streets to Ash's townhouse. Walking up to his door and asking to see his sister was entirely out of the question. Knocking at the servants' entrance could arouse suspicion. Frustrated, she tried _willing_ Lucy to come outside. But the only sister who emerged was Delilah, from a side gate.

Celeste ducked behind her cowl.

When a footman didn't pop out and follow along, Celeste's fear turned to foreboding. Abandoning Lucy's plight for the time being, she fell into step with Delilah, remaining across the street and one block behind. Ensuring Delilah wasn't in trouble was the least she could do after losing Lucy to Roman.

When Delilah hailed the only hack patrolling the quiet street and rattled off, Celeste panicked at the prospect of losing her precious quarry. The street was devoid of any other transport, save a black phaeton staged before an imposing mansion.

As the hackney turned three blocks ahead, she did the only thing she could think to do.

The phaeton wasn't as nice or as new as hers, and the team hitched to it wasn't nearly as fine. But the owner was conveniently absent and Celeste wasn't known as a mad whip for nothing. Skirting to the rear, she found the tiger dozing against the right wheel. "Boy, what are you doing?" she asked imperiously, doing her best to startle him.

He snapped to attention. "Ma'am, I was just--"

"When your master arrives, you may tell him you were accosted by an armed highwayman who promised to return his phaeton in an hour. Now, move!"

"Please don't, my lady! He'll say I was sleeping again!"

She brushed around him and climbed into the seat. His entreaties were reduced to gaping.

The vehicle turned on one wheel as she banked hard onto the street. All told, only a minute had passed, but London was a maze of seedy boroughs. Each second took the girl closer to ruin.

_A shadow just ahead._ She urged the horses faster, until only a block separated her from the hack. Then she slowed behind it, so as to not draw the attention of the driver.

The hackney made several turns, taking it deeper into a section of town she knew well. Then, in the dusty courtyard of a low-class coaching inn, it stopped. To Celeste's surprise, a man jumped down from inside the carriage.

Her foreboding became comprehension. This man must be Gavin Conley, the blacksmith Delilah desperately wanted to marry.

He was handsome in a common sort of way, too broad for Celeste's tastes but with a dark swath of unruly hair and a square, rugged jaw. He turned to help Delilah down and wrapped his hands around her waist. Even from half a block distant, his eyes shone with pleasure as he regarded his treasure.

His open adulation struck Celeste right through her heart. What would it be like to have a man love her so thoroughly, he was willing to risk everything to have her?

Mr. Conley set Delilah on her feet and secured her arm. His bearing warned pickpockets and riffraff away from his woman. The hack driver hefted a trunk from the roof and set it at their feet. After a brief exchange, the conveyance clattered away.

Delilah beamed as her oversized hero gathered her in his arms and swung her around, lifting her feet from the ground.

They fairly floated into the coaching inn. Celeste sighed. The idyllic sylph in her wanted to turn her horses around and leave the lovers alone. But most of her was over thirty and knew that the road ahead was rougher than either of them could imagine. What to do, what to do?

She guided her team into the yard and tied them off at a post. Adjusting her cowl to cover her bright hair, she entered the inn. It was busier than the yard, crowded with people awaiting the next coach.

Delilah was easy to locate, but it was the imposing figure of her lover that commanded Celeste's attention. Hesitating, she wondered again if this was her battle to fight. But the debacle with Lucy was too fresh, her recent betrayal of Ash too deep, for her to ignore something this consequential.

"Miss Gray!" Delilah exclaimed as Celeste confronted them. "What are you doing here?"

She looked about in horror, obviously expecting her brother to materialize next. Perspiration dampened her brow. "Where is Trestin?"

Mr. Conley's arm settled around her waist. "Shh, my love. He can't come between us now."

Celeste didn't meet Mr. Conley's eyes. She'd intended to deliver a convincing reprimand, but his resolution doused her courage. She had more money than most women saw in a lifetime. It wasn't enough, not when she craved love and affection. Was it right to separate these two?

Her silence betrayed her indecision. The lovers calmed a fraction.

"What are you doing here?" Delilah whispered again.

Celeste moved in until they were all toes-to-toes. "Saving you! What the devil are _you_ doing?"

"Please, don't." Delilah's brown eyes implored her. "I love him."

"And I love her," Gavin said firmly, taking Delilah's hand. He wrapped her fingers in his large, rough ones. "We're headed to Gretna Green."

"But your brother will..."

Celeste stopped as Delilah's face fell. He would be hurt. He would consider himself a failure. But would he have found a husband to love his sister this much, as though she were the only woman in the world?

"He will forgive me," Delilah said, blinking back tears. "Eventually."

"And we will write to him when we are settled," Gavin said, squeezing Delilah's slim fingers. "This doesn't have to be the end."

Celeste nodded mutely, suddenly feeling very alone in the world. At what cost did she deter them? A titled husband wouldn't necessarily look at Delilah like she was the sun and he a helpless blade of grass growing toward it.

Celeste steeled herself. This young lady might think she had no taste for Society or for money, but then, she'd never been an outcast, never been poor. Celeste summoned the last of her energy. "You'll be shunned. Receiving the cut direct hurts, even when you believe you are above such petty measures."

Delilah held her gaze. "The country suits me well."

Celeste stood by as the mail coach rolled into the yard. Did she want to ruin their elopement simply to prove her life had been lived for the sole purpose of helping someone else make a better choice? Or did she want to feel happy, knowing they were embarking on their new life together?

In the end, Celeste knew nothing for certain, except that she was not strong enough to deny Delilah's heart. She hugged the young lady and allowed Mr. Conley to bow gruffly over her hand. As their coach pulled away from the inn, she waved a silk handkerchief in the air. Then she returned to her stolen phaeton, finding the drive home much longer than she remembered.

After handing over the vehicle to the distraught tiger and slipping him a coin for his distress, she walked the few blocks home to her terraced house and let herself in. A hot soak while she decided whether to send Lucy a summons sounded heavenly.

But there was no time for a bath. Lucy was already here. Celeste followed Gordo to her drawing room and stopped at the threshold.

"I knew you'd try to find me," Lucy said, suspiciously aglow, "and I thought I'd save you the trouble."

_Trouble?_ If only she knew!

The girl seemed unaffected by Celeste's mute stare. "What an interesting turn of events last night, hmm? Trestin and you, Montborne and me..." She waggled her eyebrows at her supposed accomplice. "We're taking the town."

"You should not have been there!"

Lucy's eyebrows lifted, all innocence. "No one knew it was me. Even Trestin looked right at me and didn't recognize me."

Celeste fought the urge to collapse into a screaming heap on the floor. "How did you enter? You didn't have a voucher. You shouldn't have even known about it--"

"Why, everyone who is anyone knew about Mrs. Galbraith's little party. It was to be quite the scandalous affair."

"But how did you sneak past the majordomo?" It mattered little; Celeste was at fault. Even if she hadn't introduced the girl to the demimonde per se, she'd ushered her across the line of propriety.

Lucy affected insouciance. "I've made friends."

Celeste grasped the doorframe. "Did you and Lord Montborne--?"

"Make love? Yes!" Lucy leaned forward, her hands clasping the fabric of her skirt. "I cannot even begin to describe it. Oh, Celeste. You never said." She smiled rapturously. "You never _said_."

Celeste pressed her fingers to her brow. "Dear God."

"God had nothing to do with it," Lucy replied cheekily. "Lord Montborne is an amazing lover. So tender, I thought I would expire. When he--"

"Stop, stop now. Please. We must think this through. Did he know it was you?"

"Of course. I was naked."

"Oh!" Celeste braced her forehead against the frame. What had she done?

And Roman. Dear, dissolute Roman. _How could he?_

"I can see you're wondering 'how could he?' Very well, I assure you." Lucy punctuated this with a wicked laugh. "A rogue needs only a little coercion. He practically had me against the garden wall, though I did insist on a bed, which he obligingly provided. It was the most romantic interlude you can imagine. And you made it possible."

_She 'd made it possible. _Yes, she had. __ Oh, this was a disaster.

"Did he offer for you?" Celeste croaked.

Lucy looked at her innocently. "Offer what?"

Celeste could barely say it. "Marriage."

"Oh, no. I told him not to bother. I believe I thoroughly flummoxed him there."

Celeste needed tea. Perhaps something stronger than tea.

Lucy shrugged. "He said he's going to tell Trestin."

Definitely something stronger than tea. Celeste pressed the back of her hand to her brow and forced her legs to carry her to the couch. She sat hard on it. There was no way to hide her involvement in something so catastrophic. "Dear me."

"Yes! You _are_ a dear! In fact, I love you. You are the best friend in the whole world. Oh, Celeste, I couldn't have done it without you. Montborne was so _thoroughly_ besotted. Spouting love and nonsense and promising the moon just like I always imagined. Then I took off my mask and--"

"You took off your mask?" Celeste squeaked.

"Yes, well, he had to know it was me or else what was the fun in it?" Lucy regarded her with a primness out of sorts with her words.

Celeste could only gape. "Lucy! You could have come away freely!"

"As I said, that would have defeated the entire point. I set out to make him love me and I succeeded, barely lifting a finger in the effort. Truly, I'm beyond impressed. Your training is first-rate. We ought to offer classes to our girls, don't you think? Teach them how to deal with men."

_" No!"_

Lucy blinked. "Why not?"

Celeste jumped up from the couch and began pacing her red and gold Aubusson rug. "Because this is a respectable school for respectable females. Really, why must I explain it?"

"Or," Lucy said slyly, "it is a specialized education for young women who see themselves in, well, a slightly different light."

"It's a school for _innocent girls_ who have _nowhere else to go_."

"I imagine we all begin innocent," Lucy said reasonably. "Only the clever girl who knows what she's doing reaches your level."

"Exactly!" But Celeste's exclamation was lost on its target.

Lucy leaned forward excitedly. "We'll train the best of the best! Men will pay handsomely for a girl with excellent, learned conversation and a pretty smile, will they not? And we'll have the satisfaction of making independent women of girls who would have gone onto be servants and seamstresses, if they're even that lucky."

The vision was extraordinary. It was viable, and perhaps even brilliant. But it wasn't what Celeste had in mind when she thought of using her hard-earned wages to help unfortunate girls who would, yes, be selling their favors without her assistance.

"I'm sorry, Lucy, but I cannot condone or support your idea. You've made love to the one man you've adored since girlhood. You don't understand what it means to be a courtesan, to give yourself to the highest bidder and open your most private parts to men you don't even know."

Lucy's excitement dimmed. "I suppose not."

"Absolutely you do not!"

They regarded each other a long moment. Finally, Lucy spoke. "I'll never truly understand what your life has been like. But I am very glad you've shared a part of it with me, and I will always be grateful you gave me the opportunity to follow my heart. We're friends, Celeste. Never think otherwise. And if ever I should be able to return the favor," her eyes gleamed with resolution, "I will."

**Chapter 25**

****

HE WAS GOING to do it. He was really going to do it.

Ash pushed from his desk and stretched his legs out, holding a delicate emerald ring into the pale ribbon of sunlight cascading from his library window. He'd sifted through all the trinkets passed down in his family. This was the only setting that didn't cry out for attention, and one of the few that weren't paste. A single emerald set in a gold band. A precious gem less pure than a diamond, yet admirable and beautiful. Like her.

It was flawless. And he was ready. He would ask her tonight, after a simple supper and a glass of wine. Not the most imaginative proposal, but then, he wasn't the exciting, dashing man Lord Montborne was. He couldn't offer her midnight parties or new gowns every other day, like a wealthy man could. He was never going to be as perfect a husband as he wished to be. But he could love her, and only her, forever. And he rather thought she'd prefer that to all the diamonds and impeccable lovers in the world.

Well, he hoped so.

His library door opened so quickly, he didn't have time to hide the precious ring in his pocket. Caught red-handed with a bauble that could mean only one thing, he dismissed his butler with a glance and regarded his tall intruder levelly. "What a surprise, Montborne. You must have sensed I'm happy."

The marquis took the library in three strides, then, to Ash's surprise, sat heavily in the leather chair across from his desk. "I'd tell you how incredibly stupid that sentimental look on your face is, but..." Montborne trailed off, for the first time sheathing a cutting remark.

Ash opened his drawer and reverently set the ring on a cushion of papers he should have been reviewing. Assured the wedding ring wasn't going to disappear along with his hopes and dreams, he shut the drawer and turned to his uninvited guest. "I thought every day was Poke Fun at Ashlin Day. Heart not in it?"

Montborne sighed mournfully and rested his chin in his hand. "The problem is, I don't know what to do. And before you say it, despite what you may think about me, I _always_ know what to do. But this is beyond the pale. I've really done it this time. My death may be imminent."

"Surely it's not worse than that deal with Lord Hollyhand's daughter." Impatient as Ash was to get on with this tete-a-tete so he could be free to prepare his proposal, he'd never seen his boyhood friend this distraught. Montborne's curls were a frizz of half-formed ringlets and his skin a sallow ash. He was upset, whatever he'd done. Alarming in itself, as Montborne had allegedly done some horrific things in his time without an ounce of remorse.

"Oh, much worse than her," he said. "Much, much worse. This time I fear there's no recourse. I've lived up to my black reputation at long last." He wiped his hand down his face, staring at the floor long enough to give Ash pause. Then he turned his surprisingly sharp eyes up. "I did not ruin Lady Frances, just so you know. Hollyhand's daughter was returned to him exactly as I found her."

"Everyone seems to think you lied about that." Ash didn't add that he'd considered siding with them. After their last, violent encounter, it didn't seem worth saying.

"Sometimes 'everyone' is wrong. I never touched her. Not in the biblical sense. She threw herself at me _after_ she got with child. What can I say? I'm an easy mark. Very nearly ruined in some circles. Luckily, I'm delightful." He didn't laugh.

Neither did Ash. He'd thrown the gauntlet a few days ago when he'd dared Montborne to prove his mistrust wrong. He hadn't expected his friend to return so soon, and looking for help with the same tired behavior that had caused Ash to doubt him in the first place.

"She wasn't the first to make such a claim," Ash pointed out. "I've paid off others."

"No, and I daresay she wouldn't have been the last. I enjoy their games. Walk willingly and _stupidly_ into traps other men avoid. But that doesn't make it _their right_ --" He stopped, perhaps realizing his balled fist was preparing to slam into the 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 incredulity from showing.

Montborne waved his fingers in the air. "Lady Frances, Miss Merriweather, Miss Georgia Umbridge. These society chits are unprincipled Jezebels. I don't care whose sister or daughter they are. The lot of them ought to be locked up."

Ash bristled at the epithet. Celeste wasn't a Jezebel or a Bathsheba, even if _he_ had behaved little better than King David.

He also felt Montborne's pain. "Does it make us wicked if we seek the company of women whose intentions we at least understand?" Ash asked.

Montborne looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "This is about me, Ashlin."

Ash almost rolled his eyes. "Of course. Go on."

"As I was saying, women have written the rules to suit themselves. All of this nonsense about 'compromising positions' is just a way for them to trap us into matrimony. I won't have it. 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, Ashlin. 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?"

"You don't really expect me to answer that." A terrible feeling hardened in the pit of Ash's stomach. 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 evidence first. Interview the appropriate parties. Lord Trestin and his _reasons_."

Ash began to rise. _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, Ashlin. You don't make this easy."

"My apologies," Ash bit out. "I wasn't aware it was supposed to be easy."

Chin in hand, Montborne looked more miserable than any man Ash had ever seen. Ash closed his eyes, drawing in solid breaths while he waited for the marquis to explain.

"I had Lucy last night."

Ash's eyes flew open.

"She was disguised. I couldn't have seen it coming. I was foxed, she was lovely... The setting was right. I swear, I didn't know."

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,_ Montborne?"

"She tricked me! But it was me, it was me, too." The marquis hung his head. Blond curls fell into his face. "Something is different about her. I tried to tell you, but I suppose she's your sister. You couldn't see it. 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 your whole miserable family is like my own. So I used my voucher to gain access to Mrs. Galbraith's soiree, where I advanced on the first raven-haired temptress I saw. It was your sister, Ashlin. Lucy was at the soiree."

Unable to comprehend what Montborne was telling him, Ash grasped his chair's arms for dear life. "You thought my sister was a courtesan?"

Montborne's face turned incredulous. "I didn't believe it, either! But she is. Not exactly, but yes." He leaned forward. "Don't kill me until I've a chance to explain. Did you see the girl in the veil or mask or whatever? She was 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_ 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 can't think why. Lucy says she won't marry me. She wouldn't even let me ask."

Ash couldn't claim surprise. Everyone he loved was out to make his existence into a mockery. Lucy, Montborne, Celeste--dear God, _Lucy_. The flirt behind the mask had been his sister. He remembered their last meaningful conversation all too well. She'd told him she placed no value on her virtue.

It was in her blood. _Their_ blood.

"I don't understand it myself." Montborne's hands were raised in front of his chest in defense, or perhaps supplication. "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 stood slightly straighter. "I understand you're angry, but I'm not your enemy."

"Then who?" Ash started to say, but the look on Montborne's face said everything.

Celeste had done this. That was why she'd panicked.

Ash almost collapsed. What a fool he'd been. 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 for a man like him?

He clenched his hands until his knuckles turned white. He'd known she was flawed; he'd very nearly reveled in it. How had he changed so much that he hadn't seen what was right beneath his nose? She'd taught Lucy seduction!

He sagged against the front edge of his desk. This was all his fault. _No._ This was _her_ fault. And Lucy's fault. He was just the fool gullible enough to allow it to happen.

Montborne slipped past him and went to the sideboard, where he selected two crystal snifters and a decanter of French brandy. He paused, then dug two Spanish cigars out of a gold case on the table and fetched a flint. He handed Ash a snifter and lit 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 the burn of smoke and liquor began to sound like a good idea.

They imbibed in silence, each struggling with truths too horrible to contemplate.

"Lucy is a lovely young lady," Montborne tried somewhere in the second half of the 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. He ought to have paid more attention to his sisters.

Second, Celeste was more toxic than he ever could have imagined.

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 your oats in your youth has thoroughly prepared you for the minx who is...my sister."

**Chapter 26**

****

THE NEXT MORNING, the pounding in Ash's head did little to distract him from the yawning ache in his chest. He pushed himself up from the library couch and rubbed his throbbing temples.

He'd spent the night prior trying to decide which woman had committed the greater crime. Both had deceived him. Both had ignored his wishes, his orders, even his pleas. 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 to his room. He could remember feeling this impotent only one other time: when his mother had left him with no one to blame. She'd removed his reprobate father from the world and then lodged a bullet in her own temple. He'd vowed never to allow his life to spiral out of his control again.

This time, he _could_ find Celeste. He could rail at her 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.

_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 at the soiree?_ If so, it made her behavior that much worse. Did he really need to hear that instead of basic decency and concern for another's virtue, 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. 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. There would be no catharsis in seeing her eyes stricken with hurt, no pleasure in a confrontation with her at all. He preferred to remember her as she had been, when he'd looked at her and believed she was destined to become his wife.

The ache in his chest almost killed him. _He would never see her again._ He couldn't even contemplate it.

For the next several 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 ring for his valet, then attempted to bring order to a face that had spent most of the night wedged between two couch cushions.

When he finished his toilette, he asked Evans where he might find Lucy. Unlike with his mistress, he couldn't choose to never see his sister again. They must keep order even when they disagreed.

They were family.

Lucy's spine steeled almost imperceptibly as he entered the breakfast room. The sideboard steamed with eggs and toast, but he paid it no mind. He stopped before the table, both to face her and to block any possibility of her escape.

She tipped two sugar lumps into her tea. After swirling her spoon, she rested it against the saucer and met his eyes with a level gaze. "Good morning, Trestin."

He didn't want to admire her poise. It provoked him, actually, because she couldn't really mean to sit there and regard him as if he'd done the offending.

He motioned for the footman to leave. When the door closed soundlessly, Ash curled his hand around the upper rung of a chair. He was afraid that if he didn't, he might be tempted to wrap his palm around something similarly strangle-able. "What have you to say for yourself?"

She bit into a piece of toast and took her time swallowing. After dusting her fingertips, she replied, "I trust Lord Montborne gave you a fair accounting and you've no need of more detail from me." She raised one eyebrow, daring him to command her to finish.

Good God, he certainly didn't need to hear more detail. He squeezed the wooden rung, steadying his voice. "I've heard enough to know you behaved shamefully. You've done everything, it seems, to make marrying you off as difficult as possible."

A satisfied smile turned her lips. Her gaze dropped to the nibbled toast on her plate.

Her smugness shocked him. Why? _Why?_ Did she hate him? Had he failed her so thoroughly that she'd come to revile him? Why else would she laugh in his presence, so that it felt like she'd jabbed him in the stomach with a rusty blade?

"Very well," he said, determined not to rant at her, for he could think of nothing worse than her leaving altogether. "You don't wish to marry. What I can't __ comprehend is why you behaved so abominably toward my friend. What did Montborne do to be drawn into your scheme?"

She blinked as if she hadn't expected him to ask that. "Would you prefer I'd given myself to a stranger?"

"Good God, Lucy. Are you trying to kill me?" Though he was nearly yelling, his voice sounded strained. His fist shook the chair rung until it creaked in protest.

She rose from her seat. Her hands splayed across the white lace tablecloth. "It had nothing to do with you!"

Her words reminded him of his argument with Montborne. Montborne had been so certain Lucy's odd behavior was due to Ash's infatuation with Celeste. Now Lucy was fairly shouting that it wasn't.

If he could be absolved of even one mistake, his guilt would ease immensely.

"I thought you'd understand," she said, calmer this time. "Not when we first arrived. But after you started sneaking out to see Celeste--"

"How--?" he started, but she cut him off with a swipe of her hand.

"I tried, Trestin. I truly tried to want the future you envision for me. A pious man who would dote on our children and never ask too much of me in bed. But you couldn't abide that for __ yourself, could you? Once you discovered what it feels like to love passionately, you could never marry a proper miss simply to conform to what is expected of you. Why, then, would you ask it of me?"

"My situation with Miss Gray has nothing to do with your disgraceful behavior."

She bristled. "You _would_ think that, wouldn't you? You're so accustomed to dismissing my feelings, it hasn't even occurred to you that our situations might be similar."

"No, it hasn't." Because they couldn't be. "Montborne is an upstanding man. One willing to tell the truth even when it might cost our friendship. If the situations are similar, it's because what you did to him is little better than what she did to me. Playing on his feelings, for what? To punish me for failing you?"

She frowned. " _I_ begged Celeste to teach me how to seduce him. I'm the one who entranced him. And I'm the one who rejected his suit. What has any of that to do with _you_?"

Was it his fault, or wasn't it? This argument was driving him mad. "If I'd have found a husband for you sooner, none of this would have happened."

She shook her head. "Haven't you realized it yet? I'm in love with him. I always have been."

Ash stared down at the table and pressed his fingers to his temples. This was precisely why he wasn't going to confront Celeste. Arguing only made the situation worse.

He raised his head to look at Lucy again. "You're in love with Montborne, so you invited him to seduce you and then threw his proposal of marriage in his face."

She clasped her hands together until her knuckles whitened. "Would _you_ have accepted him?"

"The marquis is fickle and vain and absolutely penniless. Yet you leave me no choice but to allow him your hand."

"I meant if it was _you_ who loved someone, and they finally proposed to you out of a sense of guilt, would you marry them?"

Ash had no sympathy for her. "You're well aware of the rules. You gave yourself to him. He's yours."

"Ha." She looked away.

"I see nothing funny about this. He is honorable enough to make an honest woman of you. He's kindhearted and I believe he does feel some emotion for you. By your own admission, you're in love with him. You will marry him."

"You cannot force me."

Ash hesitated. The sister he loved with all his heart stood across from him, obstinate and in pain. Yes, he did understand what it felt like to love a person who didn't return the sentiment whole-heartedly. It didn't excuse Lucy's poor choices, just as it didn't excuse his. She must be made to see that.

"You will have nothing, otherwise," he said slowly, as though she might stop him to declare she'd changed her mind. "Not a penny from me."

She shrugged, shaking her head at his threat. "You're not the type, Trestin."

That caught him unawares. "Of course I would--"

She sighed. "I don't credit for a minute that you would turn me out without a shilling."

He would, though. Not because he wanted to turn her out in dire straits, but because he wanted her to relent. "I made Delilah the same promise."

"Did you?" She let out a sad laugh, one that sent dread straight to his gut. Then, in a near-whisper, she continued, "I know you so well, but you continue to misjudge me. I have the means to support myself. My school in Bath will open next week, and I will no longer be here to make you miserable."

"How?" The word fell from his lips before he'd even thought it. How had she arrived at the means to open the school? When had she found the time?

She crossed her arms, a protective measure he'd seen Celeste use when their conversation turned personal. "Unimportant."

"Did you draw credit? Good God, is it in my name?" He could barely afford his sisters. He couldn't afford an entire _school_.

"Of course not!" Her voice rose as her hands dropped in fists at her sides. "Have you listened to anything I've said? I'm a woman, Trestin. Not helpless."

"But how?"

When he continued to regard her silently, she stiffened. "I found a benefactress. She's provided everything."

A sponsor?

Fury burned through him. All the years he'd scrimped and planned, the needed repairs he'd weighed against his sisters' futures... She could toss all his effort back in his face without fear, because she didn't need him. Not anymore.

He'd thought she couldn't hurt him anymore than she already had.

"Who is it?" he demanded.

But then he knew. With a sickening surety, he knew.

Her lip protruded mulishly. "None of your concern."

Oh, it was his concern. If he needed any more proof to confirm this whole tragedy was his fault, he had it here. Lucy didn't need him anymore, because she had Celeste.

"She can't do this," he said. Pointlessly, for it had already been done. Celeste had taken the one weapon he'd had to use against Lucy--her dowry--and made it look like a paltry toy.

Blindly, he stared at the breakfast room. Everything looked exactly the same, as if this morning weren't the worst in his life.

Slowly, his eyes settled on the untouched setting beside Lucy's.

His dread returned. Their sister rose with the sun. If she hadn't come down for breakfast yet, she must be...

"Where is she?" he roared, feeling the last of his control slip away. "Where is your sister?"

Lucy's face mottled but she didn't crack. She glanced at a clockwork over the fireplace. "I imagine she's married by now. Mr. Conley fetched her yesterday."

_" What?"_

Lucy's shoulders straightened. "He's a good man. Dependable. Not at all like Lord Montborne."

"You're the one who chose Montborne!" Ash's mind reeled against this new, horrific revelation. _Delilah had eloped._ He leaned against the chair, needing its support. "How could she?" he whispered, his vision blurring. _How could she leave him?_

"She loves him," Lucy said slowly. "You would not consent."

Ash turned away. He struggled to keep his voice steady. "He's not good enough."

She didn't come closer, or try to comfort him. "I thought you'd have realized it by now. None of us are good enough. That's what makes us human."

Ash stared at the wall papered with tiny, perfect roses until they smeared into a pink and green mess. "I only wanted the best for you. I did everything I could think of..." His breath shuddered from him.

"Oh, Trestin." Her footfalls sounded behind him. Then, at last, her hand rested on his shoulder. "I had to seduce him. I had to _know_."

"He wants to marry you."

She sighed. Her hand patted his shoulder. "No, he doesn't."

But Montborne had seemed a wrecked man.

"Where did Delilah go?" Ash released his death grip on the chair and stalked to the window, unwilling to press Lucy any farther today.

She retook her seat behind him, perhaps as wearied by their argument as he was. "I don't know. She means to settle in Gloucestershire, near his family. She said they were for Gretna Green first, but I'm not so sure. She's above the age of consent."

"She's in Gloucester, then." Days from home. His chest felt tight, his stomach cramped. In a week Lucy would be gone, too. Bath was almost as far as Gloucester.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lucy turn in her chair to look at him. "You should marry Celeste. Then you won't even miss us."

It took a full minute before he trusted his voice. "That you would even suggest such a thing assures me you have no sense of what is right."

"She's not a monster." Lucy turned back to her breakfast. She toyed absently with her now-cold toast. "She understood my desperation to be with Lord Montborne as no one ever has. Trestin, I wouldn't mention the whole deal with Roman again, but I feel it's relevant. She helped me because she's in love with _you_."

His heart gave a sharp kick. _Lies._ "If she loved me, she wouldn't have let you ruin yourself." He couldn't believe how calmly he said it. He still didn't want to believe it was true.

Lucy glanced at him over her shoulder. "She made me happy, Trestin. She makes you happy, too. Why won't you admit it?"

There went the tightening in his chest again. "Montborne is not happy."

"Well." She clinked her stale toast against her plate. Ash allowed her a minute to contemplate his words. Then she snapped the triangle wedge in two. "He ought to know what it feels like when he disappoints others."

"Except he's done no wrong." With that instinctive defense of his friend, he remembered his own despicable allegations. Last night, had he apologized?

"I'll never believe he's as guiltless as you say," Lucy said.

He studied his sister, seeing her for the first time in weeks. Still brown-eyed and black-haired, still defiant. He couldn't quite place what was different. But he found it awkward to realize that she seemed to have matured when he wasn't looking.

"I can't see the benefit in continuing this conversation," he said, suddenly wanting to be away. "Montborne is willing to marry you. It's in everyone's best interest that you accept. You're young now, but one day you'll wish you had married. I'm sure he can be brought around to the idea of your boarding school, if you are bent on having it. I don't imagine he means to kick his heels in Devon year-round. You should have plenty of time to pursue your own interests."

She stood and turned on him so fast, Ash stepped back. "You would have me at home while he chases skirts in London?" she asked, incredulous.

Ash hesitated. "I didn't mean that."

"I would _never_ allow it," she said with a hiss. "I would hunt him down and shoot him, like Mother did. And that is why I _cannot_ marry him. I love him too much to let him hurt me."

All the softness was gone from her now. Ash, too, stilled. He would never wish that depth of pain on his sister. Mother had taken everything from them in a single, jealous fit.

"Then you're smarter than Mother was," he said at last. "She should never have married a profligate ass."

Lucy shied away from him. "Father? How can you blame him, when it was Mother who was the unfaithful doxy?" She clapped a hand to her mouth. "I didn't mean it--"

But everything inside Ash had already gone rigid. "What are you saying?"

Her horror lasted another minute. The longest in his life, as he waited--prayed--for her to explain herself in a way that made more sense.

"I saw her with Fraser. Mother, I mean. With the groom."

More lies. He had a clear memory of Fraser. A large groom with too many muscles and a distinctly animal odor, he was the man who had taught Ash to sit a horse.

But children remembered things quite differently than adults. To the Ashlin whose recollection was but a boy's, Fraser was old. Far too old for their beautiful mother to have dallied with.

She couldn't have.

She _couldn 't_ have.

Not just because it was something she wouldn't have done. But because it would change everything he knew.

"I saw them," Lucy continued without his prodding. "In the stable. I was there when Father came in. He said--" She remained straight and poised, but her voice drifted. A memory she'd all but forgotten, or hidden away. "He said he didn't forgive her. Couldn't, wouldn't, never. I'm sure he kept his word, for they were never the same hence."

Too many emotions came at Ash at once. For a man who had secluded himself from feeling, it was no surprise he didn't have words for what wracked him. Not as it overtook him in a crash, certainly not as it ebbed into a dull, quiet horror.

_It couldn 't be true._ Not the bit about his mother, for he'd known she had her faults. But it destroyed him to think of his father as heartbroken, instead of heartless. To think there had been a reason for the endless rounds of women. Because then everything came into question. _Everything._

"You're wrong."

Lucy shook her head, her mouth turning down in pitying lines. "I wish I were."

Asking __ wasn't accepting it was true. "Who else knows?"

Her usual fire sparked. "Do you require proof?" she asked hotly.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I do. Your charge is outrageous." He didn't want to believe it. Even if it were true.

Especially not then.

Her shoulders squared. The dark curls framing her face bounced with her affront. "Fraser knew. Mother knew. Father _knew_."

"And you," he said. Then he waited. But she didn't concede, and so he spoke for her. "And Delilah."

_Please, please deny it._

She jerked her chin upward. "How could I not confide in my sister?"

"But you didn't tell _me_?" The accusation ripped from him, a fresh, new form of agony.

She appeared momentarily flummoxed. Her hands fidgeted together. "I suppose it didn't occur to me you didn't know. You always know everything."

"But clearly not this."

She didn't move. Nor did she apologize.

"And then?" he demanded. "When it must have been obvious I didn't know?" He couldn't keep the hurt from his voice.

"By then? I had stopped thinking about it. Who wants to remember their faithless parents? Trestin, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Well, you have."

When he had himself together--or when he thought he had himself together, he growled, "Didn't you think it would make a difference?"

"A difference with respect to what?" She sounded honestly perplexed.

"Me!"

"Do you mean about Celeste?"

"God, no!"

Lucy reached out to touch his sleeve but he backed away. He couldn't stand her touch. Not now.

Acts of treachery tumbled around him, one after the other, like a carelessly built house of cards. How had he not expected it, when he'd always kept himself on alert?

Because he'd loved them.

He didn't notice Lucy's proximity until her hand clasped his. "You were so righteous, Trestin. I think neither of us wanted you to know."

His teeth ground together until a bitter taste filled his mouth. "You're not helping."

His entire life, he'd blamed his father. Hated his father. Now he must call that into question. How did he come from _two_ unfaithful people?

No wonder Lucy doubted the efficacy of marriage. He was beginning to think the whole institution a pile of rot, himself. Which meant he must choose between condemning Lucy to a painful marriage like the one their parents had shared, or accepting her becoming a bluestocking spinster. The latter was less likely to end in her arrest.

But he couldn't like it. It simply wasn't who he was.

ONE WEEK LATER, Lucy left London. Ash was at Gentleman Jackson's when her carriage pulled away, for he couldn't bear to witness her leaving.

He pulled his right fist back. Let his bare knuckles pound into his opponent's shoulder. Lord Belfry's answering grunt was satisfying, in a visceral way. He continued his assault, pummeling the man, fortified by the pain in his soul. _Thwack, thwack, thwack._

_Thunk._ Ash's head snapped back. It felt good to feel something other than the caving of his chest.

When the lights in his head subsided, he danced forward again. Belfry was about the same height and weight, but he clearly didn't have the passion for fighting that Ash had today. Belfry's brown hair was plastered against his forehead and his shirtsleeves hung in damp curtains over his shoulders. Ash flexed his hand, then sent it pummeling into Belfry's stomach. _Thwack._

His sisters had both abandoned him. _Thwack._

He'd driven them away. _Thwack, thwack._

_Thunk._ Belfry tried to block Ash's fist, but Ash was faster. _Thwack._

He'd sent three footmen along with Lucy, wishing he had a brute like Gordo to watch over her. He'd have his man of business conduct interviews. There had to be another Gordo out there somewhere. _Thwack!_

"Trestin," called a voice from the sidelines.

_Thwack, thwack!_

"Trestin!" it shouted again, closer now.

He barely heard it. Even when strong arms pulled him back, and someone handed him a towel to wipe his sweat, he didn't stop.

He rubbed the cloth over his face. Before his perspiration could run down his cheeks and be taken for tears.

**Chapter 27**

****

CELESTE KNEW ENOUGH about men to know he was not coming back, and she didn't require her spectacles to see it. He was not coming back. Not to rail at her, not to accuse her, and definitely not to forgive her.

A lengthy bout of silence was all that was needed to inform a mistress her services were no longer required. A wife, on the other hand, couldn't be disposed of as easily. Wives required confrontation, conciliation, and that dreaded word, communication. It was one of the many reasons men preferred mistresses to wives.

A knock at the door below stairs startled a wisp of hope in her breast. Just as quickly, the wisp plummeted back into place. Whoever it was, it was not Ash.

She looked out of the window anyway. Of course it was not Ash.

The motion of the front door opening and closing vibrated below her. She looked through the window again. The young caller made his way back onto the street. Just before he walked away, he looked up. His boyish face searched the windows.

She quickly stepped into the shadows. Viscount Kinsey. Goodness, he was ten years her junior. It must be curiosity. Acquaintances and strangers both hadn't stopped calling since she'd disappeared again.

And why not? The last time she'd disappeared, she'd returned with the _ton_ 's most straitlaced bachelor in tow.

Her stomach rumbled as she watched Lord Kinsey walk away. It _was_ almost tea time. The entire house smelled of cocoa and vanilla beans. Perhaps it was also time she rejoined the living. Ash wasn't coming back. He'd had weeks to confront her and he'd stayed away. This wasn't the first time she'd seen a lover drift into a phantom--though she could do everything in her power to make sure it was the last.

She made her way to the kitchen, suddenly ravenous for a pot of chocolate. Gordo and Hildegard hovered over the stove. They ceased their whispered argument as soon as she entered.

"The tray will be ready in just a moment," Hildegard said as she set a serviette and spoon beside Celeste's favorite Limoges chocolate pot. "We lost track of time, didn't we, Gordo?"

He grunted and churned the thick, bubbling concoction without looking up.

Celeste smiled wanly at her servants. "Gordo, did I have a caller just now?"

The spoon circled steadily in the pot. "Lord Kinsey left his card."

"I see," she said, drawing a chair up to the table in the center of the kitchen. "And do you have other calling cards I haven't yet seen?"

He hefted a brown paper-wrapped object onto the table beside the stove. Large hands tore the paper, exposing a hunk of meat which he dumped on the butcher's block with a _thunk_. "You aren't receiving."

She was touched by his attempt to shield her. "Thank you for minding the door, but I'm much improved. From now on, I'm at home."

Gordo and Hildegard both paused to look at her in surprise. Then Gordo selected an enormous knife and jammed it into the side of pork. "Lord Trestin hasn't called."

Celeste flinched. She had a moment to quiet her racing heart as Hildegard set the tray before her. "Thank you, Gordo. I'll keep that in mind."

He grunted.

After tea, she rang for a restorative bath. Then she received two male friends from what felt like a previous lifetime. Drumming up her famous wit while Lord Steepleton and Mr. Tewseybury shared the latest _on dits_ with her reminded her she was still alive, even if...

She toyed with the lace edge of her sleeve. Would she never stop thinking of Ash?

The next day, another man rang, and the day after that, news had spread she was at home again. She allowed the attention to buoy her. Yet no matter how handsome the caller or how deeply she laughed, it was always there, in the pit of her belly: the knowledge that her actions had lost Ash. She'd hurt him, deceived him, and broken his trust. She was ashamed of herself.

Little by little, as she returned to the parties and late dinners she'd once enjoyed, a wonderful thing began to happen. She remembered she'd once been beautiful. Not perfect, nor pure, but entertaining. Her company was still desirable, even sought out. And on occasion, when a man looked at her with a certain light in his eyes, she remembered the pleasure of being admired.

As her confidence returned, so did her desire to start her life over again. Midford, just outside of Bath, became her new destination. She made plans to sell the cottage in Devon, working with her solicitor to have the final repairs made. Surrendering the home where she'd begun planting the seeds of her new life saddened her, but she pushed her regrets aside. Devon was too painful to return to, and she should like to be near Lucy's school.

The school would give her life purpose. She'd learned so much about herself in the few short weeks she'd been away from London. It couldn't hurt to learn what else--and even perhaps who else--was out there.

At least, she couldn't hurt more than she already did.

Celeste penned a note to Elizabeth and set it on a silver tray to be delivered with the post. If Elizabeth ever changed her mind about Captain Finn, she would be welcome; Midford was not so far from the Prince Regent's center of vice in Bath that the locals would be shocked by their presence.

Then Celeste shared her plans with Gordo and Hildegard. They clapped and exclaimed how lovely it would be to live near the sea.

Hildegard did, at least. Gordo merely rumbled.

On the fourth morning, Celeste called for her phaeton, concerned that Elizabeth had not responded to the invitation to Midford. But Elizabeth wasn't at home.

The maid who'd opened the door glanced over her shoulder. Her face reddened as if in embarrassment.

Celeste followed the girl's gaze. _Oh, no._ He couldn't have. Not already. It had barely been two months!

The buxom courtesan-who-was-not-Elizabeth cocked her head and began to come forward. Captain Finn's voice called down the hallway. "Millicent? Who's there?"

The wail of an unattended child struck Celeste cold. _Where was Elizabeth?_

**Chapter 28**

_June, 1814_

_Brixcombe-on-the-Bay, Devon_

ASH COULDN'T SAY what prompted him to pay a visit on Lady Elizabeth. Nevertheless, on the blustery, rainy day after the day he heard of her return to Brixcombe, he guided his horse through the pouring rain and down a picture-perfect gravel drive to a small outbuilding on the Amherst property, certain her sudden arrival warranted his presence.

He didn't take the time to admire the simple touches that brightened the landscape since he'd seen it last. He was too worried. He hadn't expected Lady Elizabeth to appear unannounced. Truthfully, he hadn't expected her at all.

Lady Elizabeth. How right he'd been to suspect she wasn't who she seemed! "Mrs. Inglewood" was not just a courtesan, but the Earl of Wyndham's infamous daughter, Lady Elizabeth Spencer. A woman who'd run away with an Army captain at an early age and disgraced her horrified family. A story that had horrified _him_ , when he'd heard it.

He'd never thought to see her in his little corner of Britain again, yet he was strangely glad of it. Despite his objection to the rift she'd caused in her family and the path she'd taken thereafter, Ash liked her in his own, reticent way. Once upon a time, he'd wanted to see the right thing done by her. His involvement with the demimonde hadn't changed that.

_The demimonde._ He must put Celeste out of his thoughts. He hadn't knocked on Lady Elizabeth's door hoping to see her "companion."

Hoping? He didn't _want_ to see Celeste. He couldn't stop loving her no matter how hard he tried; seeing her would only make the pain worse.

No, he'd come to call on Lady Elizabeth because his sources had revealed she'd returned alone. Without a chaperone, or a wet nurse, or any of the attendants with whom a woman in her situation might be expected to travel. Without Celeste.

That alarmed him.

He wiped the rain from his eyes and knocked again, because his first pounding had resulted in nothing, and he wouldn't leave unappeased. People didn't travel to Brixcombe because it was entertaining. Something was amiss.

The door cracked open. "Yes?" a red-haired maid asked uncertainly. Her hand remained securely on the doorknob.

"I've come to see Mrs. Inglewood."

"I'm sorry, sir, but she is not at home."

He didn't budge. For a full second, they watched each other in silence. He didn't scowl, as he might have done before, but waited. Without speaking. Without demanding.

She cast her gaze downward and closed the door.

Ash resisted his urge to knock again. Surely, she had gone to get her mistress.

As he waited in the rain to be admitted, cold rivulets making their way down his collar and soaking the hair at his nape, he reviewed his limited knowledge of Lady Elizabeth's predicament.

Aside from the man who'd ruined her when she was but a girl, the father of her child was also an officer, though not the fictitious one she'd claimed. She was wealthy, though not as well-to-do as Celeste; more than a dozen years in the Cyprian Corps had lined her pockets so that money was the least of her worries.

Ash had heard nothing of an attempt to reconcile with her parents.

She answered the door herself, speeding relief through him. Upon a second consideration, however, he saw the changes. Her dark hair hung in limp curls against pronounced cheekbones. Her complexion was wan. Instead of bold and seductive, her voice sounded softly defeated when she said, "I'm sorry my maid kept you waiting. I didn't expect you, or anyone, really. I didn't give orders for company--"

"I haven't melted," he interrupted her. Then again, she probably didn't appreciate him scolding her. He softened his tone. "May I come in?"

Panic darted across her face. He wasn't used to her looking anything but brazenly confident.

As her lips whitened and her breathing quickened, he became more determined to help her. What could have possibly occurred?

In a low voice, he explained, "I heard you were down from London, and it seemed..." He didn't specifically want to say he was concerned about her. She might be too proud to accept his assistance.

Her eyes watched him guardedly. "Unexpected?"

"Odd."

"Yes. Odd." Her hand remained pressed against her side of the door, prepared to shut him out in a moment's notice.

"Are you well?" he asked, for it seemed she was done with him.

She blinked. "No?"

He made a concerted effort not to loom over her. "Why not?"

She shrugged. Her bottle-green wrap slipped down her shoulder and pooled at her elbow. "I can't imagine my troubles would interest you."

"Try me."

She stared mutely at him. The wind whipped behind him and she braced her hand against the panel, lest the gust send the door swinging on its hinges.

He waited, but after a long minute it became clear she wasn't going to tell him.

He tried a different tack. "Are you happy?"

Her frail body tightened. "Of course not, my lord," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "My baby is gone."

Grief struck Ash like a runaway carriage. _" He died?"_

He hadn't thought it possible for her to look any more ashen than she already did. "No! He is in London. With his father."

Relief coursed through him--even though the child wasn't his, and he had no ties to it, and it was obviously hurting her that her son was gone. But he wouldn't have been able to handle a death. Not now, not when it seemed that every person in his life, even the tiny one, was moving outside of his reach.

"Then why aren't you with him?" The accusation shot out of him before he could check himself. He never seemed to understand women or the rationalizing they did, and for all he knew, she had willingly left her babe...though he didn't think that was the case. No, it was most assuredly not the case. "I'm sorry. I misspoke."

Her color deepened. A good thing, when she'd appeared near death seconds earlier. "Why am I anywhere but holding my baby? Because he replaced me with someone younger! Better able to care for Oliver, he said, but who better than a son's _own mother_?"

Her eyes slid angrily along the horizon behind him, though he had a feeling the point she saw lay further than the Devon cliffs. "I should have killed him when I had the chance," she hissed.

"I see," Ash replied calmly, because when a woman began to discuss murder, she wasn't in a mood to engage in logic.

Too, he required time to think. The captain had every right to claim possession of his child. A legality she might have considered prior to begetting children out of wedlock, but it was far too late for recrimination. "May I come in?" he asked again.

She edged the door closer to the jamb. "I don't receive gentlemen callers anymore, my lord."

His eyebrow rose. _Gentleman callers._ He had no appetite for that sort of thing, not since he'd last seen Celeste.

That last time...that had been a very different story.

But he and Celeste were done with their games and their _feelings_. He was back to his old ways. Deprivation and more deprivation. He liked it that way. Simple. _He_ always knew what he needed, didn't he?

"Would you prefer to come outside, then?" He indicated the porch. Behind it spread the lawn, which must be under the supervision of dedicated gardeners now. Rocks had been pried from the ground and stacked to make a pretty wall. Crimson rhododendrons bloomed along the gravel walk. When had they been planted?

The passage of time seemed to have accelerated when he wasn't looking. Delilah was married. Lucy, a spinster. And he was changed somehow, though he couldn't quite figure out which part of him was different.

The part of him that thought playing the hermit in Devon wasn't all that interesting anymore. Perhaps that part.

Lady Elizabeth appeared hesitant at first, but then she opened the door with an impressive amount of force and stepped through it. He applauded himself for persuading her to come out with him, then stepped away to allow her to join him in the wind and rain.

There, that was better.

Or it would have been, if she'd been in more robust health. She huddled into her insufficient wrap. "This is quite miserable, my lord."

He nodded sagely. "You ought to try it on horseback."

A crease formed in her left cheek. Hardly a smile, but better than the heartbreaking look of a moment ago. "You needn't watch over me."

He wiped at the rain dripping into his face. "Obviously."

"I'm not one of your sisters."

"Certainly not." But she was _someone 's_ sister. Lord Oliver Spencer's, in point of fact. Ash could smash the young man's face in.

"You don't need to bother with me. I have enough servants and...books."

Books invariably reminded him of Celeste. They'd never finished the lurid novel he'd poached from her servant. They hadn't finished a great many things. He'd never wanted to confront her, but he detested the open ending of their relationship.

And he detested the reminder. "I'm not a great proponent of books in place of company."

She smiled a placid smile without agreeing with him.

"Why are you alone here?"

She looked at him in surprise. "Do you mean without the captain?"

"No. I meant..." But he couldn't say it. Not Celeste, not Miss Gray. Certainly not the other, more intimate name he thought of her by. He didn't want to give Lady Elizabeth any indication of the loneliness in his heart.

"Miss Smythe?" Lady Elizabeth suggested calmly.

It wasn't necessary to confirm or deny. That is, he _did_ feel the need to shout her name, to scream, _For God 's sakes, where is she?_ but it seemed inappropriate. What sort of man asked after his former mistress, after he'd so callously rid himself of her?

"She wasn't ready to make the journey, my lord," Lady Elizabeth explained.

He drew up. "Is she unwell?"

"No, no." Lady Elizabeth shook her head. Then she shook it again.

His hackles rose. "But something has happened."

"No." Her head shook again. "It is just as well you let it be, my lord."

"Leave off 'my lording' me." He wanted answers, not this mock distance. Damn it, he wanted her to trust him.

Her eyes skimmed his face with an expression akin to curiosity. "Celeste is engaged, my lord."

That stopped his world cold. "Engaged?"

"Otherwise engaged, I mean," she said, turning back to gaze at the horizon. "Pray, do not press, my lord."

She _wanted_ to 'my lord' him. He wasn't part of her world, or Celeste's.

Blindly, he shrugged out of his greatcoat and draped it over her shoulders. Her lips were tinged blue. A gust of wind blasted raindrops against his face, but he welcomed their sting. Elsewise, he would have sworn he'd lost his ability to feel.

"Otherwise engaged? Is she with someone else or isn't she?" he demanded.

Elizabeth burrowed into his warm wool coat. She worried her lower lip. "It's not _who_ she's with. She may never settle on any one man again, for I fear you'll always own that part of her. But she's more herself now, and I wouldn't interrupt her with my problems again after all she's done for me. That's why she isn't here."

_Celeste was whole again, while he was just a shell of a man._ What had he thought? She'd pine for him forever?

But no matter what he thought of her, or whether it was too soon for her to entertain other men after their falling out--and he did think it soon, even if over a month had passed--he couldn't ignore Lady Elizabeth. She'd finally admitted she needed his help.

"What can I do?" he asked, because he knew there must be something, else she wouldn't be in Devon shivering beside him in the relentless rain.

She turned to him. Her eyes searched his face, trying to read him. A minute passed in which he did his best to look trustworthy. He needed to help her almost as much as she needed his help. For all that was holy, he needed to mean something to someone.

Finally, she straightened. Her shoulders set. When she spoke, her voice didn't falter. "I want my son."

IT TOOK A full week for Celeste to track Elizabeth to Devon. From seedy taverns to upscale boarding houses, she looked everywhere a spurned mistress might flee. Hildegard accompanied her without complaint and, more importantly, without judgment.

But Celeste hadn't thought to look here. Not until she'd exhausted her hope of finding Elizabeth in London, and had even considered posting an inquiry to the Earl of Wyndham, Elizabeth's father. Only her fear of being wrong had stopped her from penning that note, though she wouldn't hesitate to contact the earl if this last location proved futile.

She let her breath out when they made a bend in the road and Elizabeth's docile mare came into view. The horse's head bobbed over the hedgerow before lowering again. Celeste's eyes briefly met Hildegard's. _Thank God_.

She returned her attention to the long glass pane at her shoulder. The carriage would round the final hedgerow soon. The cottage, her cottage, would be standing there, awaiting her return. Silently, she urged the coachman to drive the team of four faster, and when at last they drew before the gate she pushed open the carriage door and alighted without waiting for the steps to be set out.

This was her property, her friend who was in desperate need of support.

She dashed into the front parlor so quickly, her skirts tangled about her legs. She stopped short at the door. On the settee beside Elizabeth was Lord Trestin.

His teacup hung suspended before his lips, his face frozen in a comical look of surprise. Yearning hit Celeste so hard she fairly wept with it.

_Oh, Ash. How I 've missed you._

"Celeste!" Elizabeth leapt to her feet and came around a low table, where the remnants of their afternoon tea spread over folded newspapers and a discarded sampler. Elizabeth had never been tidy, but Celeste was too relieved to see her friend--and too shocked by Ash's presence--to mind the disarray in her house.

She welcomed Elizabeth into her arms, taking care not to break her. The woman felt like skin and bones.

Ash rose behind Elizabeth awkwardly, visibly recovering from his earlier startle.

"Dearest Celeste," Elizabeth murmured against her cheek, drawing her attention away from the tall man taking up too much of the room, "I so hoped you would come. I trust your journey wasn't a difficult one? And look, you brought Hildegard, too--she just walked by the door. Do you mean to stay long, then? Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Celeste gave Elizabeth a squeeze, then pulled back to examine her. She'd lost at least a stone, and her hair was done in a simple knot instead of the elegant curls she usually favored, but her skin was flushed and her grip strong. It seemed Elizabeth, too, had turned back from the point of utter despair.

"Oh, do sit." Elizabeth pulled her to a chair and pressed her into it. "I can't stomach you looking at me like I've grown warts."

"I'm sorry." Celeste's palms pressed uneasily against her knees. She felt off. In her own home, and all because _he_ was in it. "I wasn't sure how I would find you."

A shadow passed over Elizabeth's eyes before she turned and located her seat beside Ash's empty cushion. His face was unreadable, but Elizabeth's was not.

She sought his strength.

Celeste might be sick, right here on her shoes _._ _How it hurt to see him!_ Oh, her belly felt queasy.

_With another woman, no less._

With her best friend.

This twisting, yearning ache was far worse than she'd thought possible. With every ounce of effort in her, she pulled her eyes from the man standing mere feet from her and turned her attention elsewhere--anywhere. She couldn't say for certain what she looked at, for she saw nothing, as though her mind refused to process any image but his. Yet she didn't _want_ to see him. He'd hurt her. He was hurting her now.

"Good afternoon." He broke the silence, then retook his seat. Despite being a man who commanded every inch of space, he wedged himself into the tightest corner of the settee possible, noticeably distancing himself from Elizabeth.

Celeste's experience with the opposite sex refused to allow her to derive anything from his actions. The respectable span between his thigh and Elizabeth's proved nothing but that he desired to make their association appear less than it actually was.

Jealousy created a fist around the little box in her chest. With one swift motion, it could release enough unrequited love to force her to her knees. Or else she might throw herself into the narrow space between her best friend and her former lover in a vain, petty effort to keep them apart.

She wrestled for composure and reached for the teapot, then poured out and raised her cup. More than once she'd spent an evening as a third wheel to Elizabeth and a lover. This ought to be no different.

Nevertheless, she'd never played second fiddle to her friend with an old paramour. Ostensibly, even a woman as seasoned as she could still encounter new experiences.

"And good afternoon to you, my lord," Celeste said at last, managing the greeting in a surprisingly even voice.

Elizabeth looked from Ash to Celeste, then folded her hands in her lap. "I hope you don't mind that I've come for a visit, dearest. The city is so hot in the summer, and this cottage makes a very fine respite, now that the garden is tended and the roof no longer leaks."

Celeste, too, glanced at Ash before she spoke. She fancied she could smell his soap, even at this distance.

Just thinking Elizabeth was close enough to breathe in his essence was enough to set Celeste's stomach roiling again. She took a sip of tea to calm herself, then set the teacup on its saucer and began blindly heaping lumps of sugar into it.

"When I found you were not at home in London," she said, stirring her tea with odd, disjointed concentration, "I made a few inquiries. I hadn't expected you to leave without telling me."

"Yes," Elizabeth replied with a weary sigh, "it wasn't well done of me. But if you've been to my rooms then you know they aren't mine to call home anymore. I ought to have purchased a house of my own long ago instead of depending on a man, but..." She didn't say in front of Ash what Celeste already knew: Elizabeth had always hoped Captain Finn would elope with her.

She shrugged and waved her hand through the air. "Where was I to go when he abruptly declared my services were no longer required?"

Celeste dearly wished to retort, "You might have come to me!" for she so wished Elizabeth would have confided in her. Instead, she smiled softly and murmured, "I'm sorry. He didn't deserve your affections."

Ash cleared his throat. "I'll take my leave now."

"Oh, don't," Elizabeth importuned him. "Celeste is only just sitting down."

But he wouldn't be dissuaded, and within seconds he'd donned his hat and gloves and taken himself from the room. Celeste bit her lip as Elizabeth watched him leave. He hadn't bent over either of their hands, an understandable oversight in this situation, but off the mark for someone who lived and breathed good manners.

When the parlor door closed behind him, Celeste began the arduous task of selecting a sandwich from the plate on the tray. She simply couldn't bring herself to look at Elizabeth while her heart seemed pinned to her sleeve.

"He promised to talk to Nicholas about Oliver," Elizabeth said of a sudden. Celeste's head snapped up, the sandwich forgotten. Her friend's complexion, which moments ago had bordered on rosy, was white. "I'm indebted to him for it."

Celeste's ears rang as if a gong had just been struck. She knew what debt meant to a courtesan.

Elizabeth watched her with wide, scared eyes. Her hands were clasped in her lap and her spine didn't touch the settee. "I asked him to help me. Celeste, please don't be cross with me."

"Cross?" She was heartbroken. But not angry. The rules of their craft were simple: he'd set Celeste aside, therefore she had no claim on him. Elizabeth had seen an opportunity to better her situation, a way to trade her favors for his assistance. Celeste couldn't fault her for that.

She didn't have to like __ it. She was quite sure she hated it, in fact.

Celeste's fingers picked apart a sandwich. Crumbs dropped onto her plate, one after the other. "Finn boasts of the boy's cleverness in something as simple as finding his thumb. He isn't going to hand Oliver over merely because someone asks him. What do you mean for Lord Trestin to do?"

Elizabeth worried her lower lip. "I just... I have to try. I can't bear not to, and Trestin wished to help me."

_Trestin wished._ His doting on Elizabeth hurt far worse than she could have imagined.

"But what is he to do?"

Elizabeth remained quiet so long, Celeste prodded her again. She had to keep talking, for her dread was making her ill. "Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth toyed with the lace edge of her skirt. "He's the only man I know who cares what becomes of a harlot." Her eyes begged Celeste to understand even as her words struck nails, one by one, into the box in Celeste's chest. "I say this because I fear what you will think of me when I tell you he intends to cast doubt on Oliver's parentage."

Celeste's lips parted as a great weight slammed into the fresh nail bed, implanting each rusty point deep into her heart.

Elizabeth stared at her hands. "All it needs is a whisper of uncertainty and I know Nicholas will thrust Oliver aside. There is nothing more to it than that."

Celeste finally found enough air to exclaim, "He's going to claim your _bastard_?"

Elizabeth's eyes blazed. "He's going to bring my son _back_. What else would you have me do?"

Celeste couldn't answer. What else _could_ be done? This wild scheme was no more selfish than any of Elizabeth's other actions to date, yet Celeste couldn't believe she'd had the gall to ask such a thing of Ash.

Nor could she believe he'd agreed. "When?" The word squeezed out in a strangled gasp. Then, a heartbeat later, " _Why?_ "

"Because he's a good man! I want this so badly, Celeste. You _must_ let him go to Nicholas."

Celeste's stuttered laugh betrayed how fully she wished her entreaty could stop him from doing what he wanted. Not because she wished to control him, but because they were strangers now. He had no reason to care what she desired.

"I cannot believe you lured him into this!" Celeste cried, her voice rising with her heartache. "What of Finn? Oliver is legitimately his son. You would take a child from his father? Would even you stoop so low?"

Elizabeth's countenance darkened. "I need my son."

"And when you have him? What then? Will you take him back to London?" She sat up as a new, horrifying idea dawned. "Will _Trestin_ raise him?"

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open. "Of course not! I only asked him to bring back Oliver so that _we_ might go on as we started, you and I."

Celeste wanted to shout, "Do you never think of anyone else?" for Elizabeth hadn't stopped to consider whether Celeste _wanted_ to live within a stone's throw of a man she still loved, or watch helplessly as her best friend warmed his bed.

Instead of railing, she withered into her chair, feeling defeated by the unfairness of it all. Elizabeth's poor decisions proved how badly Oliver needed the steadying hand Celeste could provide. But she'd grown tired in the last few months. Helping others was wearying, and each person she'd come to care for had left a mark on her soul.

And yet, she couldn't leave the baby to fend for himself. Celeste traced the knuckles of her left hand with her fingers, a vain attempt to pretend she wasn't alone, a pillar of strength others seemed to need and not need at the same time.

Finally, she spoke. "If he is successful in restoring Oliver to you, then we must sell the cottage and move elsewhere."

Elizabeth's resolve turned to bafflement. "Why? You adore this house."

Celeste's voice broke as she said, "Because I cannot bear to watch you and Trestin consummate!"

Elizabeth's frown marred her aristocratic features. "Consummate?" Then her eyes went wide. "Oh, no, we don't have an _attachment_ , if that's what you mean. I find him quite likable, but he isn't my type at all." Her cheeks turned a deep red. "Even if I did find him the handsomest, nicest man on Earth, I wouldn't look for an arrangement with the man my best friend is in love with. _That_ I shouldn't even have to say."

Celeste simply stared at her.

Elizabeth's gaze fell to her lap. "Perhaps I _will_ reconsider Lord Trestin's involvement. Surely there is another way, one we simply haven't thought of yet." She looked to the window while her fingers worried the cuff of her long sleeve. Her sigh was heartfelt. "Oh, Celeste, I can see how low I've fallen in your eyes. Seducing my best friend's lover! I'd hate for all of London to think me that despicable, especially when I've never touched him."

Celeste's relief left her lightheaded. "You've never...?"

"Oh, no! No, no." Elizabeth turned her head. Her eyes warmed ever so subtly. "We're just friends. But if I _should_ meet a man who sets my belly fluttering while treating me as well as Lord Trestin does..." She sighed happily. "I shall marry him without delay."

**Chapter 29**

****

ASH HADN'T RIDDEN from the old Amherst property in such a dudgeon since that first day he'd come upon Celeste and Elizabeth in the darkened cottage.

Appreciating the brisk wind stinging his face and the strain of his thighs against his horse's flanks, he rode hell-for-leather toward Worston Heights. There, he wasted no time trading his greatcoat and linen for the dingy attire he preferred to wear when channeling his frustration into his garden.

Swan met him at the shed. No words passed between them as they collected their usual assortment of trowels, buckets, shovels and leather cuffs and piled them into the wheelbarrow.

Ash led the way while his gardener silently maneuvered the wheelbarrow behind him, first toward the conservatory and then to the edge of the property. He stopped to inspect a hedgerow dividing Worston from the moorland and, finding it in need of gapping, gave a curt nod to Swan.

Then he dug through his inventory of trowels and fished out a pointy one with a sturdy handle, one perfect for jabbing holes into dirt packed like brick. After positioning a leather mat across the damp grass, he knelt and began the rigorous process of removing brambles from the hedgerow.

He employed two groundskeepers to do exactly this sort of thing. Yet drenched in sweat and battling thorns was how he felt most comfortable, and then...there was no one left at Worston to see him toil.

He worked at a good pace, leaving mounds of debris in his wake. So absorbed in his task was he that he almost didn't feel the wet nose pressed to his backside. Once he did, however, it became impossible to ignore.

Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

_Damn. _

Stained gloves covered his grimy hands; he smelled like a cross between a cow pasture and a prizefighter. Not how he wished to be seen by his wayward youngest sister, after all the times he'd remonstrated with her to mind her appearance.

"Lucas, please," Delilah said, snapping her fingers at the mongrel. "Trestin is far too busy to play."

Ash gripped the dagger-like trowel across his thighs as he rose. "Delilah?"

She met his gaze with a serenity that gave him pause. "Good afternoon, Trestin. I hope we're not intruding?"

"Good God, no. I'm just collecting my wits, is all." He took a tentative step toward her as though she would disappear if he moved too suddenly. "Are you well?"

She cocked her head and regarded him oddly. "Of course I am. The journey takes but a day, or," she tinged pink, "a day and a half, if one is inclined to stop for the night."

_She 'd come back._ He took three more steps toward her. "Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head vigorously. "Certainly not."

"Are you cast out?" Then, without waiting for her to reply, he blabbered out the vow he'd wanted to make all this time but hadn't been able to set down in ink. "You'll always have a home with me, Delilah. I want nothing but for you to be happy."

Her face paled. "Trestin, no! Listen to yourself. Do you think I've chosen so poorly that my husband has already seen fit to abandon me?"

Ash felt the familiar, awful sensation of being superfluous...and wrong. "Then why are you here, if not for my help?"

"Because I'm happy!" She took a step toward him. "I wanted you to see it, so that you might rest easy and we might... I don't know! Come to be friends."

He could do nothing but stare at her. She'd always been a hair taller than Lucy, prettier and daintier, but now she appeared...womanly. Not the child he'd always viewed her as, but wiser. Calmer, somehow.

"Trestin, I came because I love you and I can't be entirely happy if you're miserable. Do you mind that I imposed?" Her brows drew together and her body leaned toward him, as if she would approach if he but invited her.

"Don't be ridiculous," he sputtered, still at a loss how to feel. She didn't need him to protect her. She wanted to be friends. Where did that leave him?

Fear that she would leave before he had a chance to make things right loomed foremost in his mind.

"Don't mistake my surprise for anything but a man's need to play catch-up when something unexpected occurs," he said, trying to smile. "I'm truly glad you've come. Please tell me you don't intend to run right off?"

She smiled back. Her butter-yellow gown was one he'd purchased, but it had lightened in shade. Minute differences like the simplicity of her hair, the single sprig of silk flowers on her bonnet, and a faintly worn look to her favorite gloves all bespoke her new social status. But the brightness in her eyes couldn't be bought. Not with a title or a dozen guineas. She was in love.

He recognized it now.

"Oh, good!" she replied. "Because I _so_ wish for you to meet Gavin. He told me you wouldn't turn us out and I'm happy to see he was right!"

A rumbling began in Ash's throat, but at her look of alarm, he quelled his groan. His lot today must be unwanted visitors. First Celeste--he didn't want to think about her--and now Mr. Gavin Conley.

He grudgingly nodded his assent and didn't try to hide his smile when his sister launched herself into his arms without regard for his grubbiness. As long as she was happy...he supposed he could meet the man who'd stolen her away.

ASH HAD ONLY a few hours to accustom himself to the fact that he would dine with his sister's husband that night. He intensely disliked thinking of Mr. Conley as such, but he was much too late to do anything about it.

As he entered the drawing room where he and his family had spent so many evenings waiting for the call to dinner, he took a moment to adjust himself to the sight of his guests. Firstly, because he'd come to expect to dine alone in the last weeks. More importantly, because Lucy had been replaced by an unfamiliar man. These weren't Ash's two mischief-makers with shining brown eyes and a ready excuse, but Delilah and her husband, whom Ash must tolerate.

Mr. Conley came to his feet. Ash crossed the room to shake hands with the bull of a man who'd stolen his sister. "Mr. Conley. Welcome to Worston Heights."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, my lord." Conley's large frame had been boxed into a dark blue superfine coat. His hair was swept away from his broad forehead with a heavy dab of pomade and his cravat was pleated into an elaborate fall of linen.

He couldn't have looked more uncomfortable. To his credit, he didn't seem to mind. He'd clearly done it for Delilah, and for that, Ash couldn't find fault in his appearance.

Nordstrom materialized to issue the call into dinner, thereby saving Ash from needing to form a response. In fact, dinner would have been a perfect distraction, but for Delilah's visible reticence to allow Ash to escort her.

Conley nudged her toward Ash. "'Tis what's proper," he whispered against her ear.

Delilah's lips pursed as if she would argue, but Conley's visage discouraged her with a speaking glance that firmly said, _Woman, I 've warned you about harping_.

To Ash's great surprise and amusement, she turned to him and smiled pleasantly. "There will come a day when we are both married, and then I will _miss_ being led into dinner on your arm. I already miss it, in fact. Dear Mr. Conley is always so good to remind me of the things I forget."

Conley's lips twitched. His eyes shone with approval, and that glazed, slightly stupid look that Ash was coming to understand meant devotion.

He offered his sister his sleeve then started them down the long corridor to the dining room. "I trust your rooms are to your liking?"

"Yes, thank you." She craned her neck to look over her shoulder. "We think them both splendid, don't we, Mr. Conley? It _was_ kind of you to think of separate rooms. Married life can be so tedious, when one is parked right atop the other."

She hadn't become so sweet-natured that she'd lost her wit. Ash grinned to himself. The irony of it was, he hadn't had a thing to do with their separate rooms, because quite bluntly, the thought of them having __ any rooms of any kind put him off his dinner.

Now that she'd mentioned it, however...

"If it were up to me, you would be on opposite sides of the hall," he teased.

Conley let out a bark of laughter. "I've five sisters of my own, my lord. I know how you feel."

Ash quickly wiped his smile away. He didn't need a reason to actually _like_ the fellow who had all but kidnapped his sister. Let alone five reasons.

Five _was_ a plague. He'd been ready to give up at two. "Are they all younger?"

Conversation paused as they entered the cavernous room and found their seats. Delilah sat to his right, her husband to his left. A snug room like the breakfast room at Celeste's terraced house would have been more appropriate for their little party.

But that was an odd thought, wasn't it? He'd dined like this with his sisters every night for a decade and never once wished for more intimacy.

"My youngest charge is but fifteen," Mr. Conley said when the turtle soup had been brought out. "The eldest is three and thirty, a year and a half older than myself."

"Fifteen is a dreadful age," Ash said absently. Then he paused.

Delilah had married a man _older_ than him. A sobering thought. His youngest sister had married a man not that much older than he and not much older than herself, but old enough to be, well, _older_.

If Ash really wanted to be put off his turtle soup, Mr. Conley was almost as old as Celeste. Not that he cared about Celeste's age, for he didn't; he didn't care about her at all, if he reminded himself enough of it.

But of a sudden, they seemed to have all become adults inadvertently. Childhood antics had given way to real concerns.

For the first time, he realized Lucy had been a bit justified in claiming to be past the point of marriage. Not because she _couldn 't_ marry; Delilah was only a few years younger than she, and Celeste only a few years older, and both had found men who wished to spend their rest of their lives with them. But because Lucy was old enough to know her own mind, and if she said she wouldn't marry, then... Well, perhaps she was old enough to decide that for herself.

"We weren't so bad as all that, were we, Trestin?" Delilah asked as she stirred her spoon through her soup.

"Ha!" Conley's eyes glinted knowingly. "I'm sure not."

"If I recall correctly," Ash replied, pushing his untouched bowl away, "fifteen was the age when you decided you desperately required your own conveyance. Never mind that I couldn't afford it, or that you had nowhere to go."

Conley gave a commiserating snort.

Ash caught his eye briefly. Then he addressed Delilah. "So you stole my curricle and my two best carriage horses. And promptly ran them all into a ditch."

"Oh, Trestin, you're still not holding that against me, are you?" Her eyes playfully importuned him to have mercy.

He chuckled at her overly innocent appeal. "Somehow, when I came into the title, I didn't expect to become a nursemaid as well."

Her lips formed an O. This time, he didn't think it was feigned. "But you didn't! We were already _grown_ when--"

Whatever she'd been about to say was cut off with another look from Conley. She instantly demurred. "I suppose you _did_ think you were almost a man, and ready to leave university, and were not expecting to take on responsibility for two girls right out of the schoolroom. I'd never thought of it that way, until Mr. Conley said so. His sisters are ever so exasperating! Only one is of an age with me, and she is so practical as to be impossible to get on with. A bit like you, I think." She said it without accusation, and he smiled encouragingly.

"It _is_ nice, sometimes, to be the one others turn to for advice, and other times, it makes one feel as though one doesn't know a thing at all," she said.

Mr. Conley smiled and reached across the table. Their hands met near the candelabra set between them. With a gentle stroke over the knuckles of her bare hand, he murmured, "They adore your insight, as do I."

Ash rolled his eyes. If the man wasn't already under his sister's skirts, he would have called him out for such an asinine declaration.

And yet, never in his life had he expected to have a rational conversation with Delilah. Something had happened to her.

He didn't want to believe it was Mr. Conley.

LATER, WHEN DELILAH left to take tea in the drawing room, Ash was obligated to share his port with Mr. Conley.

His sister's husband wasn't precisely an ugly man, but he was no gentleman. His children would be too tall. His thick shoulders bespoke years of wielding iron and flame. But he had a certain easiness about him, as though he'd never cared a whit what others thought. And mayhap he didn't. He certainly had nothing to prove to Ash tonight, for he'd already married Delilah.

Conley rubbed his brawny fingers against the spindly stem of his port glass. He looked at Ash directly. "We should have met earlier."

"We might have. Except you didn't come to ask my permission to court my sister."

"You wouldn't have given it."

Ash couldn't agree more. He sipped his port and waited, unwilling to apologize.

"'Tis not easy," Conley said, swirling the finest port Ash could afford, "to be here right now. Not because I care if you like me--you're just one man. But my wife cares, and it means the world to her that you've allowed me to dine at your table. So thank you."

Ash paused, momentarily moved. He'd never admit as much, because Conley had done him an ill. But he did care that his sister had found a husband who valued her happiness above his own.

"Why didn't you try to meet me?" Conley asked, driving to the heart of the matter.

Ash poured another fortifying round for them both. He supposed Conley could be endured. His directness was refreshing, after all the underhandedness that had gone on of late.

Family was family, after all.

That didn't mean Ash must hold his tongue entirely. He set the bottle down and leaned back in his chair. "Because I don't care if you're a bloody _vicar_. You're not good enough for my sister."

Conley snorted. "Ain't that the truth."

"You don't deny it?" Ash admitted with surprise. Conley was growing on him.

"Of course not," Conley said. "She's so far above my station, I should never have looked twice."

Ash leaned forward again. "The last thing I wanted for my sister was for her to marry a bounder."

"Oh? Then you might have done a little inquiring. Settled your nerves. I'm a blacksmith, but I'm not crass. I go to church on Sundays and help the poor when I can. I don't steal, lie, or cheat. I've never been married. I've wenched--what man hasn't? But I'm also above the age when a man finds that sort of thing entertaining. It's sons I want. And daughters." His eyes met Ash's in another probing gaze. "I'm not worthy of her, but that's because of who she is, not who I am."

Ash wanted to call that a ridiculous, romantic statement. But he couldn't. So he concentrated on what he knew to be fact. He _wanted_ to be angry. He deserved this chance to bring Conley into his hellish world.

"You're not good enough for my sister, so you courted her in secrecy and then lured her away. Are those the actions of an upstanding man?"

Conley shook his head, unaffected by Ash's bad humor. "No, but I would do them again. Because if you don't mind my saying so, my lord, you wouldn't be sitting here with me now, taking your port, if I hadn't. I think you like me. Not because I'm good enough for her, for I'll never be that. But because I did what you were scared to do. I took what I wanted and I damned the consequences."

Another mark found. What good had turning his back on Celeste done? Had he proved anything? To anyone? His sisters had gone on to behave exactly as they'd wanted.

And he? He was miserable. Morals were cold company.

He took his leave of Conley soon after. It irked him to know that the man knew his secrets. Unfortunately for his sister, he came across her on the landing as he made his way toward his bed.

She ushered her maid down the hallway, then turned to him. "Well? What do you think of my husband?"

Ash wanted to rebuke her for sharing his private pain with a stranger, but his fear that she'd walk out again meant more than his violated privacy.

"If you must know," he allowed reluctantly, "I think you two will do well together. I wouldn't have chosen him for you, but maybe that's for the best. I'm coming to realize that I don't know any of us as well as I thought."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, Ashlin! I thank God every day that Miss Gray came when she did. We were at each other's throats, you, Lucy and I. If she hadn't come, I think we would have done irreparable harm to one another."

_Miss Gray._ Ash couldn't smile. "It wasn't as bad as that."

"Then you've no idea how frustrated I was." Her laugh caught in her throat. "Truly, I'll never be able to repay her for what she's given me. I'm so happy now, I can barely stand it."

His jaw worked, but surprisingly, it wasn't because he was angry with Celeste for inspiring his sister to elope. Sometime in the last few days, he'd begun to see the world wasn't as black-and-white as he'd always believed it.

If he could feel compassion for Lady Elizabeth, whose loss he'd come to feel personally, and happiness for his sister, who'd aligned herself with a man he'd never intended to respect, then perhaps his grudging gratitude for the immoral lessons of a lightskirt wasn't a surprise.

Delilah's eyebrows lifted. "I can see you have much on your mind. Good night, then."

"Wait." He reached a hand to stay her. Her upper arm was firm, not fragile as he'd always imagined it. She was strong. Somehow, he'd never realized it.

"Why do you think Mother was unfaithful?" he asked.

She blinked. "Did Lucy tell you that?"

He dropped his hand from her arm. "Yes."

The single word expressed all the isolation and betrayal he felt. How was he to trust anyone when so many had lied to him, allegedly for his own good?

Delilah hugged herself, touching the place where he'd grabbed her arm. "I _am_ sorry. You loved her so much, and we didn't want to take that from you. It seemed unfair to vilify her after she was already gone. There was--there was much we didn't tell you. But I can see we hurt you by hiding it. Not just because we shut you out, but because it affected the way you perceived events. Please, forgive us."

Not long ago, he wouldn't have been able to forgive her. But he'd grown tired of distance. Perhaps it was time to accept each other as they were, secrets and all.

Perhaps their family would never be perfect. Perhaps it didn't have to be.

"I do forgive you."

Relief lit her face. "Oh, Trestin." Her hand touched his briefly. "Thank you."

He inclined his head once, slowly. But he wasn't ready to let the matter rest just yet. He'd had weeks of long, quiet days to consider his mother's treachery. It colored everything he knew about himself, for it painted his father in a much different light.

Instead of being a debauched, insatiable animal, his father had been wounded, bent on hurting his wife as keenly as she'd hurt him. And, perhaps, trying to forget.

But Ash had yet to understand why his mother, who'd loved his father enough to kill him in a fit of passion before reloading and turning the pistol on herself, had broken her vows at all.

"Why did she do it?" he asked his sister again. "There seems to be no sense in it."

Delilah tilted her head to look at him. He couldn't mistake the compassion in her eyes. "Maybe it _was_ madness."

"But if something like that can just happen..." He didn't want to admit to his feeling of helplessness out loud. He hadn't foreseen Delilah's act of independence, nor had he anticipated that Celeste would deceive him so fully. He especially hadn't expected his _sister_ to seduce Montborne.

Either he was blind to human nature or there was no logic to it. Could he ever be comfortable if the world continued to shift under him?

Delilah smiled. "Surely, a little surprise now and then is what makes life interesting."

"I am _surprised_ to have this type of conversation with you." He quirked his lips to show her he was even enjoying it. Just a little.

Her smile turned into a full-fledged grin. "I think you miss her, Trestin. I hope you admit it soon. I never noticed how secluded this house is until today. How do you get on with so much emptiness?"

The emptiness, as she called it, wasn't just in the house. It seemed to live right in his soul. But that would mean that he did miss Celeste, and he couldn't. Because if he had to fetch her back, then he'd have to admit how very wrong he'd been about her in the first place.

"That is a devilish scowl, Trestin," his sister teased. "I can only imagine the kind of argument you are having with yourself."

He shifted on his feet, feeling restless of a sudden. "I'm glad you find it amusing."

"I do. You're always so collected, yet when you think of her..." She waved one hand slowly, clearly enjoying her chance to provoke him.

"Don't say it."

"Ah, but you know, now you cannot stop me." She took his hand and squeezed it between her own. "Go to her, before it's too late. You won't find another woman who knows you better. Nor one who can accept us--all of us--as we are."

He was beginning to think she was right. "But how do I ask her forgiveness? I've wronged her so thoroughly."

Delilah's smile was kind. "Then tell her so, in such a way she'll know _you 've_ changed."

**Chapter 30**

****

ASH DIDN'T INTEND to invite Celeste to race him in a phaeton. Some things just sounded right when one said them aloud, by accident.

She stared at him as though he'd belted out the most ridiculous claptrap. Her rosy lips parted in surprise, and to be entirely truthful, he understood her bewilderment.

Lost his head? He had certainly done that. After painful deliberation, he'd come to the Amherst cottage to show her _to hell with staid_. Delilah was right. He must prove to Celeste that he had changed, in a way she couldn't doubt. Because for God's sake, he missed her.

Even he hadn't meant to make things quite so _overt_.

"A--a race?" She continued to regard him with a dumbfounded expression.

He smiled ruefully, enjoying this chance to be in her presence again. Her cotton day dress was simple yet stylish, and her knot of auburn hair curled becomingly at her shoulders, as though she hadn't taken the time to put it up right.

Had she rushed to receive him? He liked to think it, when he'd been so worried she would refuse him. After every way he'd wronged her, he didn't deserve to be in her presence, let alone in her parlor.

But she'd come down. Just the arm's distance between them seemed too far. She was beautiful, his Celeste, willowier than he recalled but still lush, the same indomitable woman who'd captured not just his fantasies, but his waking hours, too.

How had she done it? He still didn't know.

"I formally invite you to race me from here to Plymouth," he said, doing his best to offer her a rakish grin. "I've brought my fastest curricle."

"My lord--" Her gaze darted away.

He stepped toward her, needing her to believe he was in earnest. "I climbed my first tree in twenty years because of you. I danced. I laughed. I made love. You did that for me, Celeste. And so much more."

Those green eyes glistened. Hope gripped him tightly as a smile trembled on her lips. "And?"

"I want more. I want to do something utterly foolish. A truly frivolous lark. Something only a man trying to impress a woman he loves would do."

She had every right, every reason to reject his overture. He tried not to seem too eager, or too frightened, but his heart galloped as if the race had started already, in his chest.

What if she said no? Not to his idea--hurtling through town in a rickety conveyance was symbolic, and inarguably rash. But what if she denied _him_? Perhaps it was too late for him to win her trust.

Her tremulous smile widened. His heart sprinted even faster. He didn't pretend to think that her softening toward him meant they'd overcome all their differences, or even the many ways they'd hurt each other. But he hoped it meant just enough had changed for her to say...

"Yes."

FOR ALL HER experience with men, Celeste had not expected Ash to materialize on her doorstep and invite her to _race_ him. In a _phaeton_ , no less.

What was it about his sudden desire to act the besotted fool--and so publicly--that made her to want to melt into a puddle at his feet? As if he hadn't broken her heart and left her a walking corpse for months on end, but could mend things simply by pretending they'd never happened!

It seemed like a dream, one in which she had no control. _Had he really come?_ _Had she acquiesced so easily, without even demanding an apology?_

But his words had been lovely, and she wasn't dreaming now. She was going to drive out to meet him as soon as she changed into her carriage dress.

As Hildegard tightened her stays, Celeste was too flustered to think much about the race itself. What did he mean by attempting something so impulsive, so entirely out of character?

_I want to do something utterly foolish._

To prove a point to himself? Or did he mean to show her that he was different somehow?

_Something only a man trying to impress a woman he loves would do._

Hildegard yanked her laces, forcing every bit of air out of Celeste's lungs. "You know you must kick dust into his face, don't you?" the maid of all work said as she yanked another centimeter out of Celeste's waist. "He expects you to win. You've never disappointed a man before and I don't suggest you start today."

Celeste smiled as she gripped her bedpost for support. "I'm sure there has been one or two who wondered what all the fuss was about."

Hildegard snorted. "Not this one. He knows."

The starting line was the church. Celeste drew up in Elizabeth's phaeton an hour later, Elizabeth beside her. The large crowd surrounding Ash's curricle was daunting, even for someone used to being the center of attention, like her.

Elizabeth clasped her shoulder. "This couldn't be a more perfect way to show him a bit of Town bronze. I'm counting on you to win."

"We all are, Miss Gray," a female voice said behind Celeste.

Celeste turned to see Delilah--Mrs. Conley now--standing beside Elizabeth's phaeton.

Delilah rested her palm on the door. "Trestin has never done anything like this, not even when he was at Cambridge. It will be the talk of Brixcombe for ages."

Elizabeth patted Celeste's hand. "You simply _must_ make him eat crow."

Celeste waited anxiously while Elizabeth was helped down from the high flyer by their footman. Then Celeste flicked the reins and maneuvered the team to the starting line just outside of the church doors.

Elizabeth's grays were a lively pair, but not a team Celeste was used to driving. Had she been in London, she would have preferred her own light phaeton and spirited geldings. She'd come to Devon in a carriage, however, and so Elizabeth's less well-sprung conveyance would have to do.

Celeste sat stiffly, waiting with outwardly cool aplomb as her heart ached to know what in blazes Ash was about. Finally, his gaze found hers across the throng of spectators. For a few unbearably heated seconds, he watched her. Then his face broke into a boyish grin and he bade the crowd to give him space.

"I must shake hands with the competition, you know," he said, separating himself from the many tenants and villagers who'd presumably come to witness this unprecedented break from tradition.

He drew his smart little curricle beside her much taller phaeton. He had to crane his neck a bit to see her. "You came."

She aimed for a playfully haughty smile. "I couldn't resist the opportunity to trounce you."

He grinned back, seeming uncommonly lighthearted, as if nothing at all could go wrong today. "I was counting on it."

Before she could respond with another glib rejoinder, Mr. Conley called for the crowd's attention. "Lord Trestin hereby declares his intent to race Miss Gray from our St Andrew church to the doors of St Matthias in Plymouth. The winner shall collect a forfeit as agreed upon by the opponents. Opponents, you have one minute to outline your terms."

Celeste arched an eyebrow. She turned to regard her _opponent_. "A forfeit? You didn't mention one before."

Ash touched his chest in mock affront. "Why, I thought you would be delighted to know there will be retribution in your future, Miss Gray. This is your chance to request I be drawn and quartered."

"If I wanted to see you dead, my lord, I would have arranged for a few less witnesses."

"Bloodthirsty wench." He caught her gaze and held it. "If I win, I want a kiss," he said quietly.

Her heart banged against her breast. "A kiss?"

He nodded. "Just one. Right..." He touched the sharp line of his jaw, just below his ear. "Here."

She could scarcely find her voice to respond. "If I win, I want to know what this is all about."

He continued to hold her gaze with those golden eyes. "I think you do know."

Satisfied that he'd flummoxed her, Ash gave Mr. Conley a signal. She tensed as Delilah's husband raised a pistol into the air and fired, the single round echoing like a Vauxhall firework.

That was all the prompting Celeste required. With a snap of her reins, winning became foremost in her mind. Dust rose in clouds about her, filling her nose and grating her eyes, but she ignored it. Her prize danced just before her, her competition behind her.

No matter who won, she would go home victorious tonight.

Plymouth was a good three miles distant. She kept the horses at a steady yet sprightly trot, so as to keep them fresh longer. Her eyes scanned the road ahead for rabbit holes and other traps.

The three-beat rhythm of Ash's approach sounded beside her, then fell back, then pulled abreast again, threatening her focus.

She formed an even tighter grip on her reins. Her teeth rattled in her head from the jarring pace. She wouldn't be distracted, however, not even when his dusty vehicle began to pull ahead.

As he passed, Ash doffed his hat in mock salute.

_Never._

Elizabeth's sturdy little phaeton offered little relief from the bumpy road. Celeste refused to slow. The pain in her backside would be worth the ache when she forced Ash to explain--in an acceptable level of detail--what he meant by all of this.

They came around a bend in the road. Ahead, a short bridge crossed a stream. Just over the bridge lay Plymouth. This was her last chance. Celeste ground her teeth and jammed her boots against the footboard.

She urged her team faster and faster still, until she drew neck-and-neck with Ash. She didn't taunt him as she breezed past. She couldn't. All her focus was trained on taking the narrow bridge before he did.

Her team clattered onto the bridge first. A curse rang behind her. Then a shout of laughter.

The rails on either side made it too narrow for Ash to attempt to pass her here. She allowed a heartbeat to look over her shoulder.

Ash's handsome grin beamed at her. If he knew he'd been beaten--and he must know, though he still leaned forward, urging his horses faster--he didn't mind.

Coming off of the bridge, Celeste didn't slow. The outskirts of town began to fly past, but still Ash didn't gain on her.

Houses crowded together, giving way to a wider market street. The dirt road turned to cobblestones.

Then she espied it. A small crowd waiting outside the doors of a church. The church's spire pierced the blue sky above them, pointing toward victory.

She leaned toward it, mentally reaching for it, and closed her eyes. _She 'd made it_. No matter what happened next, no one could take this moment away from her.

The motley group of spectators broke into hearty cheers. She grinned at them and drew the horses to slow in a walk around the cobblestone square. "Thank you!" she called out. "Your encouragement is appreciated."

Ash pulled his team in behind her, and she further slowed her horses so that he might come abreast of her. She still didn't know what he'd meant by this. Now he would have to tell her.

Pride lit his face as he gazed up at her perch. "You amaze me, Miss Gray," he said loudly enough for their spectators to hear. "I never saw a woman who could drive a team with such skill."

Her already-heated face flushed with pleasure. "I imagine you haven't seen many women drivers, my lord."

"Touche." His eyes bored into hers. "I had no idea how very attractive a skill it is in a woman."

Celeste wasn't sure what to make of his compliment. "A successful Cyprian is expected to drive a fine team, my lord."

To his credit, he didn't flinch at her explanation. His response was a slow, smoldering look. Then he tossed his reins to a boy who ran up to take them. He jumped from his curricle.

Another lad sprinted over to collect Celeste's reins. Within seconds, Ash was at her side, helping her down from her high flyer.

Her body slid deliciously against his hard, solid chest as he set her on her feet. As he stepped back, the familiar scent of him lingered, teasing her with warm memories.

His face split into the handsomest smile she'd ever seen. "I'm _glad_ you can best me in a race. I don't care who taught you, or why you learned in the first place. You're the most accomplished woman I know."

"Oh, Ashlin." How she'd longed for such acceptance! She could hardly swallow past the lump in her throat.

He took her murmur as an invitation to come closer. His voice lowered. "I was wrong to leave you, Celeste. What you did for Lucy and Delilah saved my family. _You_ saved my family. I should have seen that sooner."

He brushed the back of his knuckle against her cheek. "Instead of thanking you, I did the worst thing possible: I walked away. I'm so very, very sorry for that. I hurt you and..." He reached for her gloved hand. "I want to make amends."

Warm rays of sunshine beat down on them as she waited for him to continue. She was too afraid to hope. Too afraid everything she'd wanted for her future stood right here, within her reach, yet on the other side of an insurmountable divide.

"And?" she prompted when he didn't continue.

Perplexed, he squinted at her. "I wish to continue where we left off. If you'll have me."

_Where they 'd left off._ She yanked her hand away and skirted him, moving toward her phaeton. She gripped the folds of her skirt in two tight fists. _No._ Four quick little steps, one simple word. Four separate stabs into her heart as she walked away from the only man she'd ever loved.

She was not the sort to cry, let alone in public. This torment brought her close, though. No amount of him groveling and smiling could convince her to be his mistress again. Even if he'd changed, she had not. She wanted him, but not like that.

"I didn't mean it like that, Celeste," he called to her back, just as she made the quick decision to enter a milliner's shop before she began to weep in front of everyone. "I want to _marry_ you. I need to know if you want to marry me, too."

She stopped. Slowly, she turned around. _Marry her._ Marry _her_. "You cannot be serious."

He barked self-deprecatingly as he strode toward her. "Yes! Yes, I am. I've missed you so damned much. You didn't win my heart in today's race. It was already yours. I was going to propose to you before Delilah ran off, you see. Before Montborne came into my library. And then--I made the biggest mistake of my life."

She stood riveted in place, shocked by his announcement. He'd planned to propose? To her?

Before she and Roman and Lucy had ruined everything.

The spectators crowded in to better hear as Ash continued, heedless of their presence. "I was wrong, Celeste. Delilah tells me Lucy is more content now than she ever was with me. One day, I shall see for myself. And though it will be impossible to admit to her, I'm so damned proud of Delilah for finding the courage to marry for love." He shook his head. "I should have listened to her. She understands love so well."

Celeste couldn't speak, only stare. Was this truly happening?

He raised his arms out. He appeared so terribly, vulnerably handsome. "I'll do anything, go anywhere, so long as you're there. Even London. I'll live right in the heart of the city, if that is where you are."

She didn't move. If she blinked, this would disappear.

Perhaps emboldened by her stunned silence, he took several strides toward her and fell to one knee. Then he gazed up at her with the softest, warmest eyes she'd ever seen.

His voice shook as he asked, "May I proceed?"

Her answering smile trembled as laughter bubbled inside her. Her eyes filled with unshed tears. She'd hoped for so long she'd see him again, believing all the while that even if he did decide to tolerate her presence, he'd never forgive her. Yet here he was, pledging his heart to her.

It was too much to take in.

A nervous, happy laugh escaped her. She swiped at her eyes as tears began to fall. At last she nodded and settled her hands in his, giving him permission to go on.

If he wanted to marry her, if he was willing to take on everything that meant--ridicule, scandal, her sordid past--she was hardly going to stop him.

"Celeste," he said, clutching her hands to his lips, "I've been critical, controlling and trying. I've made you miserable and been unfair, demanding perfection when I'm far from it. I've yearned for you, needed you, and wanted to die without you. When I turned away, it was because I doubted myself."

He drew a breath. His gaze burned into hers. "Yesterday, I realized I've been a fool. You loved my sisters and me completely, even when we offered you nothing but heartache. You were wronged, Celeste. Especially by me."

"Oh, Ashlin--"

"No." His eyes burned fiercely. "I've loved you for what seems like forever. It took Delilah to pull me to my senses and make me see that she and Lucy are happier without me. But I am not happier without you."

He touched his cheek to her knuckles, then brushed his lips against her gloves. "I hope you aren't happier without me. Dear God, I hope you're as miserable as I am. Please, I beg of you, give me another chance. I love you. You are my life's blood and I am asking, nay begging, you to be my wife."

Tears of joy streamed down her face. Holding her hands in his, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the most beautiful emerald she'd ever seen. A single gem set on a thin gold band, sized for her feminine finger.

The crowd was silent. Even Celeste's pulse, which had pounded in her ears, was quiet. He held the ring toward her, waiting. Asking, not demanding. "I love you," he said simply.

In all her life, she'd never expected a proposal of marriage. She'd certainly not expected such a beautiful one, one given by the man she loved.

It was her turn to say what was in her heart. She pulled him to his feet and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him until he lifted her feet from the ground.

"I love you, too," she said. "I'm so sorry, Ashlin. I never meant to hurt you, or Lucy or Delilah. I swear it."

He set her down but didn't release her. "I know, darling. I don't blame you at all."

He looked deep into her eyes, the first person to ever see into her soul. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she said, the word pure happiness itself. "Yes, my darling Ashlin."

"Good." He cupped her chin and kissed her lips. "I can't bear another minute without you. I want to be married to you as soon as a special license can be procured. Is that acceptable to you?"

Her eyes filled with tears again. "It is absolutely perfect with me."

**Epilogue**

__

ASH MARRIED HER quickly. The ceremony was short, but not short enough. Never had he been as eager to be away from the watchful eyes of his friends and neighbors as he was while standing beside his bride in the same small church where they had started their phaeton race just a few weeks before.

He rushed his family through the wedding breakfast as quickly as could be done without drawing laughter. Tonight would be the most special in all of his life, because it was the first he would spend in the arms of his wife.

She'd planned for it to be special in another way, too. The men she'd hired to move his childhood tree house from the encroaching chestnut to another, safer tree, one farther away from the cottage, had made sure it was fit for habitation. She'd spent the weeks leading up to the wedding decorating the interior as a lovers' nest, and as she and Ash climbed the wooden rails, her anticipation was poignant.

The childhood refuge that had brought them together was the most special place she could imagine spending her first night with him as his wife. She could hardly wait to show him what she'd done.

He murmured his appreciation after they were both kneeling safely in the clapboard structure. A lantern offered just enough light to see the thick tick mattress and velvet coverlet.

His hand squeezed hers as he took in the roses leaning in slim vases set along shelves. It ruined the effect of a little boy's fortress, but set the mood for the adult entertainments she had in mind.

As they snuggled under the coverlet, she gazed out of the child-sized window at the multitude of stars hanging in the sky. The effort had been worth it.

Tonight would be worth it.

He tugged the blanket higher over her shoulders as a brisk breeze blew across them. He cupped his hands around her breasts, content to awaken her body slowly--though to be sure, she was plenty ready after he'd made her wait so long.

He nuzzled her neck. "I once likened you to a falling star, you know."

She laughed low and wedged closer to him. "How very poetic of you."

"Oh, you have no idea. I used to compose sonnets to your beauty."

"You didn't!"

"No," he admitted. "But I thought about it."

"I would never have guessed it." She cupped her hands over his, enjoying the feel of his broad knuckles under her soft palms. She'd missed this even more than she'd known.

He flipped her onto her back and sheltered her body with his. "I'm full of surprises." He waggled his eyebrows.

"This," she said, twitching her hips against the thick erection pressed between them, "is no surprise, my lord."

He began to slide against her rhythmically. "I promise my Lady Trestin has never seen the likes of it."

A low moan escaped her as he rubbed her in just the right place. It felt so _good_ to be with him. She cuddled into him, absorbing his warmth, feeling his broad chest against her breasts, and made love to him by the light of the candles.

As he took her again and again, claiming her as his own, she decided he had been right. The tree house was definitely worth saving.

****

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**Did you know t** **here are more Scandalous Spinsters books?**

This is a story in a tightly connected series. To receive updates on future book releases, please sign up for my mailing list at www.emmalocke.com.

**In order, the** **Scandalous Spinsters** **books are:**

**_The Courtesans_**

The Trouble with Being Wicked

The Problem with Seduction

A Game of Persuasion (FREE extended prologue novella)

The Art of Ruining a Rake

__

**_The Innocents_**

The Enchanting of an Earl

The Wooing of a Wayward Rogue _(Coming next!)_

The Luring of a Libertine _(#9)_

**_The Hoydens_**

The Danger in Daring a Lady

The Importance of Being a Scoundrel _(#8)_

The Hazards of Loving a Rogue _(#10)_
**Did you miss the novel that started it all? **

**Grab** **The Trouble with Being Wicked** **!**

****

THE TROUBLE WITH BEING WICKED

**_He put her on a pedestal ..._**

When Celeste Gray arrives in the sleepy village of Brixcombe-on-the-Bay, she thinks she's one step closer to leaving her notorious past behind. She even suspects the deliciously handsome--if somewhat stuffy--viscount next door is developing a _tendre_ for her. That is, until the day Ashlin Lancester learns she's not the unassuming spinster she's pretending to be.

**_Now she has farther to fall_**

After a decade of proving he is nothing like his profligate father, Ash is horrified to have given his heart to a Cyprian. He launches a campaign to prove his attraction is nothing more than a sordid reaction he can't control. But he soon learns that unlike his father, he can't find comfort in the arms of just any woman. He needs Celeste. When he takes her as his mistress, he's still not satisfied, and the many late nights in her arms only make him want more...
**Continue the series with** **The Problem with Seduction**

THE PROBLEM WITH SEDUCTION

**_An outrageous proposition_**

Elizabeth Spencer needs a man. Preferably one who won't be too picky about the morality of her proposition, or his reputation. Lord Constantine Alexander can't afford another trip to debtors' prison, which makes him the perfect candidate. She doesn't expect him to have a heart of gold, or to hold up his end of the bargain--particularly when his high-in-the-instep family gets involved. Nor does she expect to find him irresistible, because while she needs a man, she doesn't particularly want one.

**_A wicked bargain_**

When a beautiful courtesan offers to satisfy his creditors, Con leaps at the opportunity. Never mind his mother and brothers are suspicious of his newfound fortune--being with Elizabeth is intoxicating enough to wipe any thought of scruples away. He soon realizes it's not just his future he's been gambling, but his future family. How can he convince London's premier courtesan he's more than a callow rake?
**Then go back in time to see Lucy and Roman 's scandalous affair in the FREE extended prologue, ****A Game of Persuasion**

A GAME OF PERSUASION

**_A night she 'll never forget..._**

Miss Lucy Lancester has loved her brother's best friend, Roman Alexander, for as long as she can remember. So devotedly, she's vowed never to marry anyone else. But her beloved libertine is hardly aware of her existence, and not the least deserving of her affection. Deciding her cause lost, she makes plans to open a girls' school in Bath. There's just one thing she needs to do before she confirms her spinsterhood forever: spend one blissful night in Roman's arms. But her handsome rogue isn't ready to have the tables turned. It will take more than a coquettish smile to turn his head. She must play a game...of persuasion.
**Finish _The Courtesans_ trilogy with ****The Art of Ruining a Rake**

THE ART OF RUINING A RAKE

**_The night that started it all _**

Practiced rake Roman Alexander, Lord Montborne, never meant to seduce his best friend's sister. He certainly never intends to do it again. The reckless scoundrel has never felt more compelled to be a better man. Nevertheless, he can't seem to forget her, or her passionate response to his kisses. How much danger can there be in one more try?

**_The day that ruined everything _**

Serious-minded headmistress Miss Lucy Lancester believes her handsome rogue has moved on to his next conquest, leaving her free to cherish their one night together for the rest of her bluestocking days. Until the afternoon he arrives at her school intent on proving their one night wasn't enough--and this time, the scandal can't be contained. Left with few options and no reputation, Lucy turns to the one man she's sworn never to be alone with again. How dangerous can it be to spend her nights in the company of a rake?
**Now you 're ready for _The Innocents,_ starting with ****The Enchanting of an Earl**

THE ENCHANTING OF AN EARL

**_For Love ..._**

The second of five impoverished sisters, Miss Elinor Conley knows her dream of becoming a lady is farfetched. When an unmarried gentleman happens by her brother's smithy, it is up to her to act quickly--and rashly--to secure his interest. But Grantham Wendell, Lord Chelford, isn't in the market for anything more than a new horseshoe. What's a bachelor to do when an innocent miss turns up at his annual bacchanalia? He ought to make her leave, but his Twelfth Night party just became more entertaining...
**And eager for the first _Hoydens_ novel, ****The Danger in Daring a Lady** **!**

THE DANGER IN DARING A LADY

**_A wager he can 't afford to lose_**

Devil-may-care rogue Lord Darius Alexander can't resist a wager. When a game of cards is suggested at the remote inn where he's stopped for the night, he antes up his family's savings, certain his Town bronze will give him the advantage. He never expects to lose his fortune to the irritatingly confident, uncommonly beautiful hoyden daring to play with the men. ...Nor does he expect to lose his heart.

**_A woman he doesn 't deserve to win_**

Caitlin Hart is known for her good sense. When a ridiculous reprobate tosses his savings onto the gaming table, she doesn't hesitate to divest him of it. But Lord Dare won't accept defeat like a gentleman. He suggests a compromise, and before long the handsome scoundrel is working back his losses on her small farm. But her neatly plowed fields might be too close for her heart's content, for soon she finds herself wondering if she can dare him to stay forever when the last of his coin is tucked safely into his pocket.
**Then pick up the next _Innocents_ novella, ****The Wooing of a Wayward Rogue**

THE WOOING OF A WAYWARD ROGUE

**_For money..._**

There comes a time in every spinster's life when she accepts there is no white knight riding to her rescue. When Miss Georgiana Conley's infamous, wealthy aunt offers to make her an heiress in exchange for her company, Georgiana is relieved she will no longer burden her impoverished family. But though her scandalous aunt has retired to the country, she's not quite as lonely as she's led Georgiana to believe.

She has a beau.

Stephan Laurent, Lord de Winter, is handsome, charming, and suspiciously devoted to a woman twice his age. He _must_ have designs on Georgiana's inheritance. Though she immediately vows to chase the silver-tongued fortune hunter away, she soon questions whether she is protecting her aunt, her inheritance...or her heart.
**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**

When I drafted my first book I never thought writing romance novels would bring me so many generous, intelligent, and hysterically foul-mouthed friends. But here we are.

Darcy Burke, Erica Ridley and Janice Goodfellow have my undying devotion, and my heart. We may live hundreds of miles apart, but I only feel the distance when I long to drink wine with you. Thank you for your friendship, your emergency plotting help, and most of all, your occasional, "Not this." I'd be a mess without you.

Maire Claremont: I will never forget making eyes at you and Delilah Marvelle across the bar. You are beautiful, and I'm so glad we became friends. May The Dark Lady sell gazillions of copies and your days be filled with margaritas and sunshine. Thank you for all your help with this series!

To the amazing women I am honored to know, and who graciously provided their time and advice for Wicked: Courtney Milan, Leigh LaValle, Tessa Dare, Carey Baldwin, and Elyssa Patrick. I admire you all, and seeing you at National makes the ungodly expense totally worth it.

My Plot Sisters Dona Sarkar, Kelli Estes and Lillian Fogg: You come up with some of the ballsiest story concepts I've ever heard. Thank you for never being afraid to shout out pure craziness. I hope I do your ideas justice.

Special thanks to Jessica Alvarez at BookEnds. We didn't end up together, but no other stranger has put more effort into this story than you did. I appreciate your insight.

For my cover designer Carrie Devine at Seductive Designs, a great big YOU GO, GIRL. I think your talent speaks for itself, but just in case there is any question, she is awesome and you should totally hire her. Additional thanks to Teresa at Midnight Musings, who graciously refreshed my covers even though I was super, super picky.

Martha Trachtenberg, your copy edits cracked me up. Sorry I made you line edit a blow job.

I can't possibly convey the amount of support I receive from my amazing boyfriend. Chris walks the dog, makes dinner, brings me beer and generally prevents me from turning into a total recluse. He also makes me laugh like crazy. If your heart ever melts at something one of my heroes does, I probably modeled it on him.

My family has been incredible. My brothers must be some of the most well-versed guys when it comes to romance novel structure. My parents warned me about trying to live on an artist's salary, but they never discouraged me from writing. Papi, you especially always wanted to co-author a book with me, ever since I was a little girl writing fanfic for The Baby Sitters Club. This isn't that co-authored book, thank goodness. But I love your enthusiasm for my writing and I love you.

Hey, Domonick at The Rock WFP (that I will always read as WTF), thanks for keeping my spot open next to the electrical outlet. You are the best bartender ever.

Thank you, Sara Kinsey. You were the first to read my writing and you haven't stopped encouraging me since. I still feel bad about dropping your motorcycle. And Morgan Edens, you're the sweetest beta reader ever. Now go write a book of your own!

To the managers who asked for status updates as if my day job depended on it: JZ and Shawhan. I hope this makes you blush. Thanks, Lori, for reading my books. Everyone deserves a boss as cool as you.

And lastly, to Josh: Thank you for teaching me how to write with emotion. Thank you for giving me this story idea. My instinct is to tell you to go fall off a cliff now. But really, I hope you get your HEA, too.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

THE TROUBLE WITH BEING WICKED

Copyright (C) 2012 by Emma Locke

Cover design (C) The Midnight Muse

Cover photo (C) Period Images

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author. Please do not support piracy. Obtain an electronic version of this book through an approved vendor.

Intrepid Reads

ISBN 13: 978-0-9854558-4-2

ISBN 10: 0985455845
**About the Author**

Emma Locke is a USA Today Bestselling Author of smart, sensual Regency romances. Her current books make up the Scandalous Spinsters series, a double trilogy featuring three courtesans and three country hoydens who marry into the notorious Alexander family. She is also an engineer living in the Pacific Northwest, where she loves hiking with her dog, hot yoga and riding out the annual 330 days of rain.

You can Like Emma on Facebook at Facebook.com/AuthorEmmaLocke, follow her on Twitter @EmmaLocke_ or check out her books and appearances at www.emmalocke.com.

**Table of Contents**

  1. Dedication
  2. Chapter 1
  3. Chapter 2
  4. Chapter 3
  5. Chapter 4
  6. Chapter 5
  7. Chapter 6
  8. Chapter 7
  9. Chapter 8
  10. Chapter 9
  11. Chapter 10
  12. Chapter 11
  13. Chapter 12
  14. Chapter 13
  15. Chapter 14
  16. Chapter 15
  17. Chapter 16
  18. Chapter 17
  19. Chapter 18
  20. Chapter 19
  21. Chapter 20
  22. Chapter 21
  23. Chapter 22
  24. Chapter 23
  25. Chapter 24
  26. Chapter 25
  27. Chapter 26
  28. Chapter 27
  29. Chapter 28
  30. Chapter 29
  31. Chapter 30
  32. Epilogue
  33. Thank You for Reading
  34. Scandalous Spinsters Series
  35. Acknowledgments
  36. About the Author

  1. Cover

