Authors: Emma Wildes

Our Wicked Mistake (15 page)

BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake

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He really, really should shut his mouth and perhaps not open it again in his lifetime.

To his relief she stopped laughing finally and instead looked at her hands. “You make it sound as if something as permanent as marriage shouldn’t be based on more than pedigree and wealth. It isn’t fair.
You
get to take your time, deciding when to take a wife.
I
have no such luxury.”

A much safer discussion. More than once they had debated the inequity between male privilege and female subservience, and he shifted to this middle ground with relief. “Men run the world. We both know it.”

“Perhaps that’s why there are so many wars.” Her sil ver eyes took on a militant glint.

He could look into those stormy depths until eternity. “You don’t find it admirable we are willing to die in the cause of defending our countries? Our families?”

“I find it stupid in the first place you force the situa tion upon each other. Women would never do so.”

“They prefer their embroidery and gossip. Much more productive.”

Elizabeth loathed anything that involved cloth and a needle, and she wasn’t petty enough to whisper over anyone. Her haughty look could have melted a lesser man into a puddle of apology, but he was used to it, and executed a small, mocking bow with a wicked grin, grate ful to have at least a little equilibrium restored. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“I am not sure why I ever confide in you.”

“I thought you were here because of my strategic view of the street.”

Elizabeth thrust herself to her feet and paced back to the window. “That is part of it,” she admitted, “but I can’t discuss this with Luke . . . he would simply look right through me in that way he has. I certainly cannot broach the subject of marriage with my mother, for she turns an unbecoming shade of red if I begin to truly ask questions.”

Lord, if she thinks for a minute that I am going to answer questions about the intimacy between men and women . . .

A demonstration, perhaps, complete with heated sighs and blissful pleasure, but that was out of the question, and so was the discussion.

“I’m hardly qualified,” he said carefully, still propped against the paneled wall, his pose deliberately negligent. “I am as unmarried as you are.”

“But not half as sheltered.” Lush lashes lowered over her beautiful eyes. “However, I am not asking you about anything except about your attitude on the subject. Am I wrong?”

“Wrong in what way?” he inquired cautiously.

“I realize this isn’t a fairy tale, with mythical princes and unicorns floating across lush meadows, but certainly it isn’t too much to want to fall desperately in love, is it?” She swallowed visibly, the muscles in her throat rippling. “Or am I being a hopeless, naive idiot?”

Falling desperately in love, in his experience, was a little bit of hell.

“A little naive maybe, considering your position in society, El.” It was as honest as he could be, as the subject was poignantly painful. Miles didn’t want her marrying for position and stature, and, perversely, he didn’t want her falling in love either. That would be worse than having her settled down in contentment with a nice fel low like Fawcett.

Unless, of course, she fell madly in love with
him
.

The clatter of wheels turned her back toward the window, one hand coming up to grasp the drapery. The silhouette of her slender body in the lemon silk gown, her face reflective as she stood there, might be etched forever in his memory. “Lord Fawcett is leaving,” she said in evident relief.

“So you are spared the explanation of your refusal,” he murmured, straightening. “And now might be a good time to exit my bedroom before anyone knows you were here in the first place.”

“Sound advice.” She made a small face. “I’ve already received the lecture from my brother about how you and I aren’t actually related.”

Miles had wondered once or twice if he wasn’t fool ing Luke about his feelings for Elizabeth. “Did you?”

“Luke said something about us going out alone. I pointed out he was being overprotective and ridicu lous.”

“Did you?” Miles repeated with a cynical smile.

She moved toward the doorway in a graceful swirl of silk skirts and lilac perfume. “I told him our relationship hadn’t changed just because we’d gotten a little older.”

“Did you?” he said softly for the third time as she left the room.

Chapter Eleven

T
he journal sat on the desk, and Madeline eyed it like one might gaze at a coiled serpent.

It had caused her considerable trouble, and in the course of that said trouble, changed her life. She couldn’t help but wonder how Colin would react if he knew what had happened just because he’d felt the need to jot down his private thoughts.

When it was delivered back into her hands she had immediately locked it in the strongbox for safety, as opposed to where she’d put it before, merely in a drawer. She assumed where she kept the cash for the household expenses would be safer, but it spoke volumes that she was relieved to find it there. Maybe a better hiding spot was prudent.

Truth was, she’d attempted to forget about it, but had been compelled to take it out now and at least think about reading it.

What puzzled her most was how Lord Fitch had gotten a hold of it in the first place. If he’d done it once, what was there to say he couldn’t do it again?

The study was quiet, Colin’s leather chair comfortably worn from much use, since he’d loved to sequester him self away and work. Madeline had always indulgently suspected that a lot of his time was spent daydreaming, solving word puzzles, reading, and obviously writing in his journal. The bookcases lining the oak paneled walls were full of his beloved books, his rack of pipes and to bacco jar exactly as he’d left them.

How different her new lover was in every way.

Her husband’s romantic nature had evidenced itself in gifts of flowers, moonlit picnics, and bits of composed verse.

Luke was more suited to disposing of unwanted bleeding men in her house and retrieving stolen prop erty. There was little question that they were very dispa rate men, but, she sharply reminded herself, she wasn’t looking for a substitute for Colin anyway.

From the poetry he’d written to her, she could only imagine what her husband might have scribbled down when he thought no one would see it. Invading his per sonal thoughts still seemed wrong, but confidentiality had already been violated by Fitch, and perhaps she could deal better with his lordship’s lewd looks and las civious suggestions if she knew exactly what the man had read.

Still, it took some courage to open the leather bound volume, the cover soft and creased from years of being opened and closed. The familiar, careless sprawl of her husband’s handwriting made a lump rise in her throat, but she forced herself to read on.

It wasn’t until a half hour later that she stumbled on the first truly personal passage, as she found the book wasn’t written like a diary; Colin had instead just picked it up sporadically and written if suddenly inspired about small snippets of his life, including, Madeline noted with amused interest, the women he had considered courting before they met. Truly, this was a personal journey, and she was
absorbed
.

At one point she sank down farther in the chair, her slippered feet extended under the desk, and muttered, “Carole Faulks—really?”

It appeared he hadn’t touched the journal for a while, until the morning after their wedding night.

... more nervous than my bride. I tried to not be too eager and frighten her, and I suppose there was a certain clumsiness to my seduction, but then again, her virginity was upon my mind the entire time. Madeline proved to be delightfully receptive to the act of intercourse, gloriously embracing the sensation of our joining, and she didn’t insist I douse the lights, which I was perfectly willing to do if she requested it. I was pleased to note she is one of those women with very sensitive breasts, so when I suckled her she made it plain she enjoyed it, running her fingers repetitively through my hair. I wished to take all due care to hurt her as little as possible when I ruptured her maidenhead, but she urged me on with breathless sighs and the urgent motion of her hips, and I was glad to realize the pain was negligible in comparison to her evident enjoyment of the sexual act itself.
I believe I have married a very passionate woman. . . .

Alone, the journal in her hands, she still blushed furiously, recalling that evening. Colin was wrong; she had been quite nervous, but it was tempered by her knowledge that he would do his best to make it all as pleasant as possible, and, indeed, it had been a matter of touch, soft kisses, and, finally, a revelation in the unexpected pleasure. She hadn’t climaxed, but she had loved the feel of his hands and mouth on her body, and knowing she gave him such pleasure was a startling lesson in both power and intimacy.

That night she had realized her potential as not just a wife, but a woman, and she would be ever grateful to Colin for his care in initiating her into the joys that man and woman could share in the bedroom.

However, she
loathed
that Fitch had a window to the events of her wedding night.

The soft knock on the door made her start, as if she were doing something wrong, and she had to stifle a ridiculous urge to shove the journal into a drawer in the desk. “Yes?”

Hubert eased the door open, his expression apologetic. “I know you said you planned to stay in and have a quiet evening, my lady, but you have a visitor who asked to be announced.”

Madeline glanced at the case clock in the corner, saw it was nearly ten o’clock—not such a late hour in terms of fashionable circles; many events didn’t even start until midnight—but still a late time for a social call. “Who is it?”

“Viscount Altea.”

Luke.
It was impossible to not experience a rush of satisfaction and excitement. Part of the reason she chose to not attend any of the entertainments she’d been invited to this evening was a reluctance to face him in public just yet. She wasn’t at all convinced she could control her emotions enough if he avoided her like the last time after they had shared a night of lovemaking. A determination to make sure he didn’t ignore what had happened was very different from success. Luke was not easily managed—she had no illusions over that point. That he’d chosen to call on her was a coup. With as much dignity and detachment as possible, she murmured, “Please show his lordship in here and bring some claret.”

What would Colin think of this? It was the first time she’d asked herself the question. A part of her thought Marta was correct; he’d want her to be happy. Another part wondered if he’d be jealous, possessive, territorial—though with Luke, that would be futile. Her lover didn’t want a claim, just a casual distraction.

But yet he wished to see her.

“Of course, my lady.”

She now wished she wasn’t wearing her day gown of sprigged muslin at this late hour—she hadn’t wanted to bother with changing for dinner when she was going to dine alone, so she’d taken a tray instead in her sitting room upstairs. After her son’s bath, she read a book to him, his warm little body snuggled close as he began to doze. Trevor roused only for the part where the dragon swooped down to carry off the maiden in peril. He had a fascination with dragons, not beautiful maidens, but no doubt
that
would change.

“You aren’t going out.” The four words were a statement, not a question, and Luke strolled in, overpower-ingly elegant in dark evening wear, his gaze sweeping over her much more casual attire without either censure or approval. “Is this an avoidance of the possible whispers?”

“No,” she was able to say truthfully. “
Are
there whispers?”

“A few.” He glanced meaningfully at the new rug. “I see all evidence of Lord Fitch’s unfortunate mishap has been removed.”

“Well, I’d hardly leave it here, would I?” Madeline looked pointedly at a chair. “Please have a seat. I’ve ordered wine.”

His mouth quirked in amusement, but he did take a wing chair opposite the desk. “What makes you think I’ll be staying?”

Despite the question, she knew he would be. It was there in the intensity of his eyes, and Luke Daudet didn’t casually drop by. “You rarely do anything that does not involve a definitive purpose, my lord.”

“I try not to.” He leveled a lazy grin her way. “And you know me so well?”

“Very well in some ways.” Madeline smiled back, glad of his presence, so large and male, of his rangy body settling in the chair like he belonged in her house, of the way the lamplight lit his dark blond hair.

She added softly, “Not so well in others, but I am beginning to learn.”

Luke leaned back and casually crossed his booted feet. “What am I thinking now, then?”

“I don’t claim that kind of expertise.”

BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake

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