The Trouble With Being Wicked by Emma Locke Page A

wit and confidence. After a few such afternoons, he will naturally begin to think of you in a platonic way, for each time you request his company, you reduce his interest. Before he realizes what has happened, the two of you will be friends.”
    Celeste’s lips formed a moue. “I wish you wouldn’t make it sound so deceitful.”
    Elizabeth let out a rich, throaty laugh. “Is there any other way for a woman to have what she desires?”
    * * *
    Ash paused before the hall mirror only to verify he hadn’t flicked a droplet of ink onto his face. Certainly not because he’d just been informed Miss Smythe and Mrs. Inglewood were in his drawing room. Certainly not because he wanted to look his best for them. Or even just one of them. Especially not Miss Smythe.
    “One moment,” Lucy cautioned, materializing behind him. Her arms came around his middle. She seized the pointed ends of his green waistcoat and yanked. “There, now you’re ready for company.”
    In his reflection, his cheeks turned pink. “I wasn’t primping .”
    She grabbed his shoulders and forcibly faced him to her. She tousled his newly-shorn hair with her hand. “Ashlin has a suitor,” she singsonged under her breath as she undid all the hard work Evans had put into Ash’s appearance. When he growled, she jumped back with a yelp. “What? I think it’s marvelously romantic.”
    “Lucy,” he grumbled, turning away from the mirror. “There’s no need to be ridiculous.”
    Her brown eyes danced. “Oh, but I think there is.” Then she twirled and skipped off before he could form a retort.
    Primed by one meddling female, he arrived in his drawing room to receive his callers. “Mrs. Inglewood, Miss Smythe,” he said, bowing perfunctorily, “welcome to Worston. I hope nothing has gone amiss?”
    Miss Smythe hadn’t yet taken a seat, but Mrs. Inglewood had sprawled across his favorite couch and had gone so far as to prop her booted feet on an ottoman. He paused, momentarily dumbfounded by her unwieldy size. She looked fit to burst. “Mrs. Inglewood,” he said, coming toward her and forcing his tone to moderate lest she take offense, “I beg you will allow me to see you back to the Hound and Hen. A woman in your condition should have a care.”
    “I find exercise invigorating.” She sent him a beguiling look that would have sent another man’s thoughts in a truly inappropriate direction.
    Instead Ash was incensed. Could one woman of his acquaintance accept his advice ? “If you’ve no concern for yourself, then I pray you will have a care for my sisters. They’re innocent girls not yet come out and aren’t used to seeing a woman who ought to be in confinement.”
    Miss Smythe stepped forward. Her eyes sparkled over the gnarled leaves of a potted—rosebush?—cupped in her hand. “Her condition isn’t contagious, my lord. I should think you know that.”
    There was something bewitching about her teasing him. When his sisters teased him, he worried too much that their sharp tongues would drive away their future husbands. With Miss Smythe he didn’t have that concern. Two days ago when she’d bantered with him in his garden and again in the foyer, he’d felt the most at ease in a woman’s company that he could ever remember. He’d immediately put an end to it. If he could allow his guard to fall so quickly, and over a simple quizzing, what would happen to him in London when he was surrounded by flirts?
    “What are you doing here?” he asked, making no effort to sound welcoming, and yet feeling guilty for his tone. “That is to say, what is the reason for your visit?”
    “Why, we came expressly for the purpose of visiting.” Miss Smythe extended the little mangled rose cutting in her hands. “Bearing gifts. Well, one gift.”
    He eyed the forlorn specimen hastily thrust into a chipped earthenware pot. “If that came from where I suspect it came from, you’re attempting to butter me up with my own goods.”
    Miss Smythe’s eyes