Our Wicked Mistake by Emma Wildes

to eventually select a husband out of her many admirers. I haven’t noticed a preference yet for any of those eager gentlemen.”
    A change in expression crossed Miles’s face. It was a flash, masked a moment later: a slight tightening of the mouth, a muscle twitch in his jaw. He said carefully, “With all the interested suitors, I am sure she will, but if I tell her to do so, keep in mind, it will be her inclination to do just the opposite.”
    Luke might be battling his own demons, but he had started to wonder about Miles and Elizabeth. As far as he could tell, she was as of yet oblivious to the possibility that her cousin—who was not at all a cousin in any form except a distant connection by marriage—was no longer the rambunctious childhood companion, but a grown man who might not look at her with platonic indifference. In turn, she was no longer the mischievous hoyden with a tendency to drag him into all sorts of trouble.
    As her guardian, Luke hoped those days were past. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Miles or Elizabeth, but together . . .
    He might need to pay a little more attention.
    But not tonight. His mother was there. She could play duenna. He needed to get away as soon as possible. Away from playacting and charades, away from matrons with an inflated and false sense of his heroic antics, away from temptation . . .
    In regards to the latter, away from Madeline.
    “You could be right. I’ll talk to Elizabeth myself.” His smile was wry. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to make my farewells to our host and gratefully slip away.”
    Moments later he made his escape, going down the steps into the warm evening air, mercifully free of the dubious theatrical talents of the assembled party. He’d walked, as the evening was pleasant, and no sooner had he reached the street when he heard a breathless call.
    “Luke. Wait, please.”
    Madeline. Damnation. He knew her soft, lilting voice.
    He halted, uttered an even more foul curse, and turned. He’d hoped to make it through the evening without ac tually having to speak to her, and with a little effort and because the hovering Morrow monopolized her, he’d managed it.
    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