The Trouble With Being Wicked by Emma Locke Page B

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 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 rang 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 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 peeled 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 portrayal of him. “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 soft voice. “Occasionally I forget how dangerous the world can be for a woman.” She couldn’t have been more than eight and twenty, only