Our Wicked Mistake by Emma Wildes Page A
Authors: Emma Wildes
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,
“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,