Free Confessions at Midnight by Jacquie D'Alessandro Page B

slowly made her way back to the drawing room, trying to absorb the incredible, horrible news that Lady Crawford was dead. Murdered.
    A shudder ran through her. They hadn't been close friends, barely more than acquaintances, but of course she knew the beautiful widow. She'd told Mr. Rayburn and Mr. Mayne everything she knew, which was next to nothing, and answered all their questions, thinking the entire time that some awful mistake must have been made.
    After closing the drawing room door behind her, she crossed the Turkish rug to her desk and sat. Picking up her quill, she tried to resume the chore she'd been attempting to accomplish when the magistrate and Bow Street Runner arrived-to write a note to Lady Walsh thanking her for the lovely party last evening. But now, as before, all she managed to do was stare at the blank vellum. And remember.
    Him.
    The sound of his voice. The touch of his hands. The scent of his skin. The taste of his kiss. The heat that had poured through her, melting her until she felt as if she'd dissolve into a puddle at his feet.
    With an exclamation of disgust, she set down the quill and rose. Paced the length of the room several times, then halted before the fireplace. And looked up. To stare at the handsome face, the beautiful green eyes, of the husband she'd loved so much.
    The instant she'd returned home last night, she came to this very room, where she'd remained until dawn, staring at Edward's portrait while tears tracked down her face and guilt ate her. Not only for what she'd done, but because she had enjoyed it so much. And she'd realized, with no small amount of chagrin, that part of her wished her interlude with Lord Surbrooke hadn't ended so abruptly. Had continued. In a more private setting.
    Yet another part of her wanted desperately to forget the encounter, dismiss the shocking, unexpected passion he'd released within her. But she couldn't stop thinking about him. Even as she gazed at Edward's beloved face, the other man infiltrated her thoughts. Wormed his way into her recollections of past waltzes and kisses she'd shared with Edward. And for that she deeply resented him. He'd proven a highwayman indeed, stealing her common sense and her private memories of her husband.
    As dawn had broken, leaking streaks of mauve into the quiet room, she finally climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, believing she'd put the episode into perspective. Her aberration in judgment was purely the result of the anonymity of the masque. If not for her costume, she never would have behaved in such an uncharacteristic manner. It was Galatea, not Carolyn Turner, Viscountess Wingate, who'd lost her head. Now that she'd shed her false identity, she wouldn't make such an error again. She wanted to move on with her life, but in the capacity of a sedate widow. Not an adventuress seeking sensual pleasure.
    Thankfully, Lord Surbrooke didn't know she was the woman he'd kissed. She just needed to put the encounter out of her mind-and surely after a day or so she'd forget it-and pretend it hadn't happened.
    Now, after a few hours' sleep, and with the morning sunshine pouring through the window, the entire episode did seem somewhat of a dream. A feverish dream, one obviously fueled by her avid readings of the
Memoirs
. Readings that had unexpectedly reawakened sensual needs she'd thought long buried. Needs she'd never expected to feel again.
    Her gaze lowered to her desk's top drawer, and reaching out, she slowly slid it open. Moved aside several sheets of vellum to reveal a slim, black, leather-bound volume. Ran her fingers over the gold lettering adorning the cover, memoirs of a mistress.
    She'd wanted to toss it into the fire this morning, had attempted to do so, yet something held her back. The same unsettling something that had prevented her from refusing Lord Surbrooke's invitation to dance. Or his suggestion that they retire to the terrace. It was something she could neither define nor ignore. Something that deeply