The Trouble With Being Wicked (27 page)

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 to hold a razor to your neck? Because it’s me or him. You won’t hurt my feelings if you prefer a man—”

He couldn’t imagine letting the brute from the night before anywhere near his neck. “On the contrary,” Ash reassured her, “a woman’s hands are deft and detailed. 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 face and teeth and took himself belowstairs. 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 now that he knew he had her attention. 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. Thus dismissing him, she returned to her paper.

He pulled out the chair beside hers and sat. She set her pen on the table and regarded him with mild annoyance. “Do you require something?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Good manners dictated— What were good manners in a situation like this? But he needed to make things right, even if there was nothing in the etiquette books about it. “I want to apologize for my behavior last night.”

Her head jerked up. She hadn’t expected that.

“I was rude and inappropriate.” He allowed his admission to sink in. “I hope you can accept my loutishness 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?” Then 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 couldn’t let this chance pass. “When I call tonight.”

She lifted her chin. “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. He felt hopeful now. Bantering must be a good sign. “Breakfasts prepared with economy and rooms short on necessities, to me, indicate one is also short on funds.”

She pulled a face. “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 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 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, relaxing 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, allow me to 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, not at all. She was far from perfect. And 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.

That was ridiculous. What was it about her that turned him into a Byron think-alike?

Eerie 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. “Your artist meant to involve me in this scene,” he said.

“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 to, 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. And he’d willingly followed, intent on disproving her. A good idea at the time.

This went beyond his wildest imaginings. 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.

Ash’s 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.
 

Just standing in the room brought him to half-mast.

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? Even a limited gathering would quickly overheat. 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 bring the red out in the walls and improve the temperature.”

She couldn’t push 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?”

“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, continuing to tease her.

She seemed to find nothing funny in his suggestion. “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.

“So 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 from now on.”