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Authors: Emma Wildes

Our Wicked Mistake (22 page)

BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake
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“How?”
He chose evasion rather than answering the question. “Madeline is hardly in the first bloom of a debutante season. She is widowed and has a son. You know our relationship is perfectly acceptable. Why are you asking?”
“At what point did I sound censorious? I merely wondered if the unprecedented request for me to accompany you to select a present for the lady had some significance. You never have asked my opinion before, so I assign some special importance to this shopping trip.”
She had a point, of course, and he had to concede it, albeit reluctantly. “Significance? Only that if I was going to extend the effort and expense, I’d prefer she like the gift.”
“I see.” She laughed. “Though may I say I doubt a man who would wager twenty thousand on a hand of cards is worried about the expense of one gift?”
His inward wince was reflected in his wry smile. “How long do you suppose it will take for me to live that down?”
Regina teasingly patted his arm, strolling along next to him, heedless of the misting rain gathering in crystalline beads on her glossy hair. “Don’t worry. Just a decade or two, I’d guess.” Her gaze was speculative. “Care to tell me why you did it in the first place?”
“Accept the wager? Are we back to that tedious subject again?”
“One does wonder, Luke. You have your faults, but acting irresponsibly usually isn’t one of them.”
“Am I obligated to explain?”
“Ah, the Lord of the Manor tone. I wondered when you would trot it out. Yes, you are obligated, because I am your sister and I am asking with all due concern.”
Pedestrians streamed by, hurrying in the late-afternoon drizzle. Luke guided his older sister around a puddle, trying to decide if he was annoyed or found her interest humorous. Regina tended to think about her work to the exclusion of the human beings around her. “Lord of the Manor? Are you implying I am arrogant upon occasion?” He did his best to ignore the warm summer mist settling on his hair and jacket.
“I wasn’t clear?” She laughed, a light, melodic sound. “And here I thought I was putting you so neatly in your place. Actually, you sounded rather like Father when he was irritated with my incessant questions.” There was a short pause, and she said simply, “I miss him.”
To his credit, though Regina was illegitimate and fe male, their father had always treated her as his firstborn and made sure she was well educated and included in the family circle. Hence her militant—and sometimes inconvenient—independence. She’d inherited a nice por tion of her own, and because she disdained convention of almost any kind, had declared flatly she was uninter ested in sharing it with any high handed male.
It seemed he was acting like one.
“I miss him too.” Luke meant it. His affection for his parent aside, inheriting the title wasn’t without draw backs. He was now responsible for a great deal more than just his own actions.
“Is it possible you might settle into a permanent ar rangement with the winsome Lady Brewer and produce the next Viscount Altea? He would be pleased. Socially I’ve heard she’s most acceptable.”
“No.”
“No?” Regina said the word with an exploratory philosophical contemplation. “No, she’s not acceptable, or no to the permanent arrangement?”
“The latter.”
“Why?”
“Do I interrogate you about your future plans?”
“Will I like her?” Regina smiled serenely, ignoring the testy tone of his voice.
Would she? “Probably,” he muttered, “but the two of you are unlikely to meet.”
“We’re alike, then.” She waited for him to open the carriage door. “Good choice. You need someone inde pendent enough to not be offended by your tendency to hide your feelings.”
That sweeping assessment gave him pause, but be fore he could respond, she accepted his hand into the vehicle and settled into the seat, saying, “Now tell me about Elizabeth. Since this is her bow, I’ve been wonder ing how it is all progressing.”
There was almost twenty years of difference in age between his two sisters, so it was no wonder that they didn’t interact more—notwithstanding that they looked uncannily alike and exhibited some of the same willful traits. “She’s not showing a preference for anyone in par ticular.” He clambered into the equipage and knocked to signal the driver. “Which might sound familiar. In some ways, she is very much like you.”
“I never did have a strong belief in the sanctity of marriage for the sake of pleasing others.”
“We all noticed.” He suppressed a grin. Her eclectic nature was infamous.
“I’m glad our younger sister doesn’t either. It is nice to know Elizabeth has her own mind.”
“Oh, yes, she has that.” Luke hesitated, but then shook himself out of it, for if he could confide in any one, it was Regina. Privacy was sacrosanct to her. “I think Miles has other than cousinly feelings for her. He hasn’t said anything, and I don’t believe she’s aware, but I’ve . . . noticed.”
“It took you long enough.” His sister’s smile was indulgent and superior at the same time. “I wondered when it might occur to you.”
Her attitude was no surprise. That was just Regina. He asked with an edge of exasperation, “Did you ever consider telling me?”
“No.” Her mouth twitched. “What would be the en joyment in that, may I ask? I love the delicious scenario of rakish viscount supervising the innocent ingenue. You commanded the attention of Wellington, but one nineteen year old girl—”
“Woman,” he interrupted. “She’s old enough to be courted, won, and wed, so I am doing my best to not think of her as a child.”
“And yet failing. Your protective hackles are raised. Why?”
“What do you mean,
why
? We are talking about her future. Naturally I’m protective.”
“Naturally,” she repeated.
The urge to argue her open amusement was only barely suppressed and she knew it. “So, that aside, what should I do about Miles? I told Elizabeth it wasn’t advisable to spend time alone with him. It isn’t a matter of trust, but more of propriety.”
Regina grinned, shaking out her damp cloak. “Ah, the wicked Viscount Altea preaching propriety . . . How did
that
settle with our younger sister?”
“I was more diplomatic than to put it that way.”
“Darling Luke, how
did
you put it? Please tell me it wasn’t an autocratic ultimatum.”
Had it been? At the time he hadn’t thought so, but now, with Regina’s face alight with laughter, he wasn’t sure. Elizabeth had certainly been put out, but had agreed readily enough. Too readily, if he recalled the conversation. He muttered, “Of course not.”
 
The garters were crimson, the stockings black, and Madeline had no doubt as to the identity of the sender.
Fitch. That despicable villain.
Proving it, of course, would be somewhat more of a problem. There was no card, the box had been delivered anonymously, and she hardly wanted to rush out and tell Hubert what was enclosed in the package or emphasize her interest in who sent it.
Damn his salacious lordship.
With fingers that trembled, she lifted the note. It read:
I may not know with utmost certainty, but I can guess what happened.
Getting the journal back was not going to be the end of it; she’d known it all along, despite Luke’s assurance that flaunting their relationship would make Fitch take pause before he did anything else. There was one problem with ethical men when faced with their contemptible counterparts. The honorable side did not understand the depths of the black souls of the truly despicable. This was not a fairly waged war; it was something else entirely. Luke could not fathom harassing a woman in the way Fitch could. And it put him—both of them—at a disadvantage.
Yet Luke had retrieved the journal for her, though it was clear Fitch recalled some of the details all too well.
Yes, Colin had bought her black stockings and red garters and encouraged her to wear them now and again. It was a game they’d shared—a fantasy her husband had enjoyed, and that anyone was privy to the details made her furious.
Not ashamed. A bit mortified and angry, but not ashamed.
She’d found the passage just a few days before as she read through her husband’s writings, so it was quite fresh in her mind:
Monday, April 16, this year 1808
 
 
Last evening when I retired I was gratified to find my lovely wife had embraced my gift. The sight of her waiting in her room for me, on the bed, clad in nothing but the stockings and garters was so arousing I fairly tore off my clothing. I fear I might have been too impetuous, but she seemed to enjoy it as much as I when I mounted her. She is so fair, the contrast between the black silk and her pale skin was tantalizing in a way I cannot explain. Though I know she is virtuous and demure, the suggestive image pleased me, for though I would never stray now that I have married, in the past I have always enjoyed variety in my bedmates. Madeline’s allure is, as always, incomparable. I am a supremely lucky man. . . . I am already contemplating my next purchase . . .
The sound of someone clearing his throat brought her abruptly back into the moment. Madeline glanced up.
“This just arrived, my lady.” Hubert hovered in the doorway, this time extending a small box wrapped in silver paper. “It appears it is a day for deliveries and visitors.”
Visitors? She was glad she’d just replaced the silk stockings back in the box. “Who is calling, Hubert?”
“Your mother and aunt, my lady.”
Hardly fortuitous timing, but she summoned a smile as she accepted the elaborately wrapped gift, noting there was at least a card this time, whereas Fitch’s gift had arrived unadorned. She set the package aside on a small table. “Please show them in and have some tea brought at once.”
“Yes, madam.”
With deliberation she took a calming breath and unobtrusively put the lid on Lord Fitch’s obnoxious present, set the box on the floor by her chair, and braced herself. When her mother and Aunt Ida sailed through the doorway, she was smiling and hopefully composed. Madeline rose and dutifully went over to give them each a kiss on the cheek. “How lovely of you to stop by.”
Her aunt was older than her mother, with pale hair tightly wound into a bun and a perpetually disapproving air that was particularly grating considering the circumstances. Of all the people Madeline didn’t need to see at the moment, Ida was one of them. Though she’d expected the visit when rumors about Luke surfaced, she wasn’t ready for it
now
. The disquieting gift had her admittedly rattled. Poise was needed when dealing with censure, and hers was currently hanging by a thread.
When her aunt raised her quizzing glass to examine her in an affectation she found quite annoying, Madeline suggested, striving for as much graciousness as possible, that they all have a seat.
For the first few minutes her mother attempted to make idle small talk, until Ida said bluntly, “Be quiet, Jane. You’re chattering. We’re here, Madeline, to find out why you have embarked on this ruinous course. Are you mad?”
The confines of the very civilized room grew very quiet. If it hadn’t been for the arrival of the stockings, she would have been able to respond in the manner she’d rehearsed. As it was, she irrationally wished for Luke to be present, though that would cause even more of a furor.
Immediately she rejected that longing. She didn’t, she reminded herself, need a man to take care of her. Up until Lord Fitch’s unwanted and unsettling advances, she had done well enough on her own. “Ruinous course?” she asked, folding her hands.
“Your association with Altea has not been overlooked.” Ida intoned the words with appropriate weighty condemnation, the starched lace of the collar of her gray gown matching the stiffness of her voice. “People are talking.”
“I’m a widow.” She did her best to keep any hint of defensiveness at bay. “And there is no reason for anyone to pay attention to whether or not I allow the viscount to escort me to a social event now and then.”
“Darling, I know you are not that naive. He’s very eligible, of course.” Her mother smiled, but it was a bit tight. “Yet his reputation is hardly pristine. What are your plans?”
“I am not sure we have any.” Madeline smiled back, hoping her expression didn’t show that she knew beyond a doubt they absolutely had
none
.
Can you promise me you won’t die . . .
She’d still not asked him about that disturbing remark. They were lovers, but she had yet to breach his considerable wall of emotional reserve. As far as she could tell, she’d not even managed to put a ladder against it. “Lord Altea is not prone to making plans, nor is there any call for it. We’re . . . acquaintances. There’s no need for alarm, Mother.”
Aunt Ida made a derisive sound that could possibly qualify as a snort, though she would deny making such an undignified noise until her dying day. “It is not what
I
heard.”
BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake
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