Our Wicked Mistake (10 page)

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Authors: Emma Wildes

BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake
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Until now.
Her beauty always struck him in a unique way—it had the first time he’d seen her and never failed since. It wasn’t quite so much her form and face, though both were exquisite, as it was the air of sensual sensitivity, so feminine, and those luminous dark eyes, tilted at the cor ners to give her an unusual, striking loveliness. . . .
Those glorious eyes that seemed to see right through him.
She came down the steps, her silk skirts gathered in her hands, her expression difficult to discern in the dim glow of the starlit sky. “You’ve avoided me all evening.”
The edge of reproach in her voice did nothing to soothe his restive mood. “If you noticed it, may I ask why you just chased out the door after me?”
She flinched, but then squared her shoulders. “Do not use that acerbic tone with me, Altea. I am sure you are aware I wish to thank you for the return of Colin’s journal.”
“You are welcome.” His bow was slightly mocking, because it was the only way to deal with it—to deal with her. “Now, then, that being settled, I am sure Morrow is in there pining for your company. Best not keep him waiting.”
“Are you jealous?” One arched brow lifted an infuri ating fraction.
Was he?
Maybe
, he silently acknowledged. He cer tainly had no right to be, but life didn’t always follow along logical lines. “I don’t believe in that unproductive emotion.”
“You
sound
jealous.”
He definitely didn’t want to have this conversation. “At the risk of being rude, I was taking my leave, Lady Brewer.”
“You aren’t going to call me Madge?”
Her smile was deliberately provocative. A slight curve of those soft, full lips, her eyes shadowed by long, lush lashes, her sumptuous bosom just gently rising from her precipitous flight down the stairs.
“You dislike the name.” He knew he should turn and put as much distance as possible between them.
Just walk away, you blasted fool
.
“I believe I like it from
you
.”
The soft, sexual innuendo in her words might not be intentional, but as his gaze narrowed on her face, he wondered if it might be exactly that.
She took a single, crucial step toward him. “You also said you didn’t believe I was the kind of woman who would ever consent to become your mistress.”
Now she was too close, too tempting, her evocative scent reminiscent of exotic gardens and forbidden passion. Distracted, it took him a moment to register her words.
He
had
said that, of course.
“Well,” she murmured, looking directly into his eyes, “I have been thinking about it, and you were wrong.”
Playing with fire
was too tame a phrase.
Madeline gazed up at the tall man standing so still next to her, the star-studded, velvety night sky lending shadows to the chiseled planes and angles of his face and his enigmatic expression. His dark blond hair, entirely a different shade from hers—a tawny color shot with streaks of lighter gold—and curling over his collar, suited him, suited that aura of leashed wildness under his studied civility. At dinner he’d been moody, noticeably lacking in the suave niceties, and he’d even eaten his food with an almost impatient irritation, and drunk wine with little restraint, though his capacity must be formidable, for he didn’t appear the least impaired.
Or maybe he was, at least a little, for he’d watched her almost the entire time, and if she was guilty of flirting at least a little with the handsome young Charles Morrow to see if Luke reacted, she was unrepentant.
At one point, when the man next to her had leaned forward too much for propriety, she’d wondered if Luke might come across the table in a single, lethal lunge. The realization had at first startled and then intrigued her. His glittering stare had been noticeable. She needed adventure in her very respectable life, and who better than Altea to take her on the journey?
That moment with Morrow leering at her and Luke silently watching with a primal look in his eyes in response had been a decisive turning point. Luke was a gambler—all of London knew that after the infamous reckless wager. Perhaps she was one too.
He
had
been jealous. She’d known it then and she certainly knew it now. He could coolly win a wager with twenty thousand at stake, and yet he couldn’t convincingly bluff her on that fine point.
How . . . satisfying. How very empowering.
“Madeline,” he drawled in a deceptively soft voice, “go back inside and finish the evening entertainments, and I will forget you ever said that.”
She shook her head. “Let’s go somewhere and discuss it. The street seems a rather public venue.”
“It?”
“Us,” she said firmly, though her heart was pounding and her palms damp.
Am I really going to do this?
Yes, she was. Why not? She was not an ingenue angling for an advantageous marriage. She’d had that already and it was gone. When Colin died, she’d been devastated, but while the pain would never completely fade, it was blunted by time, the sharp edges softened now by memories. He’d also left her both wealthy and independent. If she wanted to take a lover, there was no reason she couldn’t. The scandalous implications of a relationship with Viscount Altea were a little daunting, but widows had infinitely more freedom than unmarried women, and she was, after all, nearing thirty and hardly in the first bloom of youth. It wasn’t like she was looking for another husband, so why not a virile, handsome lover whom she knew firsthand could acquit himself with tender, wicked skill in the bedroom, was witty and charming when he chose to be, and, though she sensed he held a dark side of himself at bay, would treat her well?
There was a combustible attraction between them. She was tired of trying to deny it, and he had even admitted he wanted her.
He didn’t move, and his eyes held a singular glitter. “There is no
us
, darling Madge.”
“Have you forgotten that night?” Acutely aware of the attendants at the carriages lining the street and possible curious eyes from inside the house, she didn’t touch him—though she wanted to—but her voice dropped to a husky murmur. “I haven’t.”
“A mistake,” he said shortly, but he still didn’t walk away.
“
Our
mistake, then.” Madeline smiled. It was a vixen’s smile, her best attempt to sway him, for though he still seemed impervious, she could sense an inner battle. “Shall we,” she said delicately, softly, “discuss our mutual imprudence elsewhere? Like my bedroom?”
Maybe it was the considerable amount of claret, or maybe it was simply male capitulation to an offer of erotic carte blanche, but Luke swore under his breath—an oath she didn’t quite catch, though a shocking word or two came through.
Yet the look in his eyes took on a searing heat.
Exactly what she wanted.
“That you followed me outside will be all over London by dawn,” he told her, but he’d already lifted his hand to her driver to summon the carriage. Since they were the focus of all curious eyes, he was instantly obeyed.
A daunting thought, but she believed she was prepared for the whispers behind gloved hands. He was right, of course. Her abrupt departure in his wake would be noted, and she was sure their conversation on the street before the Masterses’ fashionable town house also would draw both comment and interest.
“Rather like your reckless wager. I didn’t think notoriety bothered you,” she pointed out dryly. For the past year she’d thought about him every single day, and if this was what it took . . .
Then so be it.
“It doesn’t,” he admitted, “which is exactly my point. And you know my stand on the issue of permanence.” One elegant brow arched upward. “I am considering your reputation, not mine. Still wish to continue this discussion in your boudoir, Lady Brewer? Think of the risks.”
This was where she could point out that she knew his stand on the issue of permanence with
her
, because he’d stated quite plainly he intended to marry eventually. But Madeline didn’t want him to examine the topic at length at the moment and change his mind. To that challenge, she said simply, “Yes.”
“If I’m considering this it’s because I’ve had too much wine.” His voice was restive and edgy.
“Not too much, I hope.” Her voice was arch with amusement as the carriage rattled up and her young driver jumped from the seat to open the door for her.
Was this her? Playing the pursuer, inviting a man into her bedroom?
“Don’t worry. That isn’t what I meant.” Luke waved the driver off and did it himself, handing her into the vehicle and pausing for so long a moment in the open door as she settled on the seat that she thought he might at the last moment change his mind. His gaze held hers. “I’m tempted,” he said softly. “Damn you.”
“I want you tempted,” she replied, her voice just as quiet.
“You’re too beautiful.” The words were more an accusation than a compliment. He stood there, not shutting the door of the carriage, his tall form shadowy.
Yes, if anyone was watching them, there would be talk.
“According to popular opinion among the female populace, so are you.”
His smile was faint. “How flattering.”
Like he wasn’t aware of it. She said tartly, “The pointed advances of Lady Hart in front of all society come to mind as proof.”
“Is it now my turn to ask if
you
are jealous?” The amusement in his voice was unmistakable.
Yes.
But she refused to say it. The only way this would work was if she matched his detached sophistication. “I noticed,” she murmured. “I am sure that admission will sufficiently add to your arrogance.”
“You’re certain?” His voice was suddenly hushed, and there was no doubt about the actual meaning in that simple question.
“Yes, Altea, I’m sure.” Her voice was infinitely more composed than her feelings, which were scattered to the four winds.
“I’m concerned the inevitable outcome of this will hurt you.” He still didn’t close the door of the carriage, but neither did he get in.
“Let me worry about myself,” Madeline said with more aplomb than she felt. She was worried about it as well, but not enough to change her mind. That
he
worried about it was touching—and a good start. In life, all the things worth having involved some risk. Childbirth was not without its hazards, but she wouldn’t trade her son for anything on earth—or in the heavens, for that matter. “Come in through the servant’s entrance again. I won’t bother to make sure it is unlocked, as I know firsthand that’s hardly a hindrance for you anyway. My suite is the second door on the right at the top of the stairs.”
He grinned then, a flash of straight white teeth. “I like a woman with command in her voice.” His gaze drifted down her body, stopped for a moment at her bosom in open admiration, then traveled back up to her face, and his smile could only be described as sinfully seductive. “Are you going to order me about in bed as well, my lady?”
His palpable charm, when he chose to exercise it, was more disconcerting than his dark, deliberate distance. She adjusted her skirts in an attempt to delay her response, and then looked him in the eye. “I might. Will you obey?”
The smile widened. “I might. Or I might not. Either way, I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”
No, she was no match for his careless approach to seduction, but she was willing to learn. “I’m counting on it,” she said with what she hoped sounded like serene self-assurance.
Then he closed the door, and a moment or two later the carriage jerked forward and pulled onto the street.
Chapter Eight
 
 
 
T
he alley was shadowed, deserted, and the picklock worked sweetly. Two clicks, and he was letting himself into the darkened, silent house.
This is indiscreet, ill-advised
, Luke thought as he slipped down the hallway, and had he not sat through the teeth-gritting ordeal of that dinner, he would never have agreed to Madeline’s invitation. Maybe it
was
the amount of claret he’d drunk, but he doubted it. He felt clearheaded enough, though it appeared his judgment was cloudy at best. No, it wasn’t the wine.
It was
her
. In teal silk with lace at the bodice, those dark, slightly almond-shaped eyes meeting his gaze directly, and worse yet, the hint of a blush on her cheeks as she made her ridiculously reckless offer.
He should shake some sense into her.
Or make love to her.
There had been women, of course, since that one night a year ago when he’d taken her to bed. He wasn’t a monk any more than he was a saint, and had never aspired to either calling, but none of those liaisons since—none of them—had erased the memory of her.
One night. Only the one. He should have forgotten her. God knew he’d tried. He’d walked away easily enough from the others since then, but then again, they had been bored, spoiled aristocratic ladies who wanted nothing more than a night or two of lighthearted pleasure without strings, much like himself. The encounters were physically satisfying, but did nothing for his soul.

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