Free Our Wicked Mistake by Emma Wildes Page A

topic.”
    “I have never understood how having a baby is indelicate.” She twirled her parasol and her brow furrowed as they strolled along. With unswerving logic, she pointed out, “It is how we all got here, after all.”
    “Is that how it works?” he murmured dryly.
    “As if you don’t know.” Her gaze was accusing. “Word has it you are becoming quite an expert on the subject.”
    The acerbic tone of her voice held a note he wasn’t sure he recognized, and he could swear he knew every inflection and nuance. “What does that mean?”
    “Your”—she obviously groped for a suitable word—“licentious ways have been noticed.”
    He did his best to keep a neutral expression, but he wanted to laugh at her censorious observation. Besides, he didn’t have licentious ways. Occasionally he flirted a little, mostly to see if she was paying any attention to what he did at all. Until now, he didn’t know she had. “I see. I am surprised I am worthy of any gossip.”
    “Worthy? No, I agree. Yet others aren’t quite so perceptive. I am supposed to bring Susanna Meyer to your attention.”
    If she had been able to keep her voice even, he wouldn’t have experienced a small thrill of hope, which was something he usually denied himself with ruthless practicality.
    He should deny it now.
    But Elizabeth sounded . . . jealous.
    Or was it his hopeful imagination?
    Undoubtedly. Jealous was too strong a word. Miffed might work better.
    “Who?” he asked with feigned perplexity, though he remembered the young woman well enough from their recent introduction and subsequent dance. Wide-eyed, breathless ingenues were not his preference, no matter the opulence of their bosom or father’s fortune.
    No, for whatever reason, he was captivated by a silver-eyed, childish hoyden who had grown into a very provocative woman.
    The slight breeze drifted a loose tendril of glossy hair across her smooth cheek in a languorous caress. “I am sure you recall her,” she said, her face just slightly averted as they walked. “She certainly remembers you .”
    “Maybe,” he admitted, just to tease her. “Or at least one part of her . . . er . . . abundant anatomy.”
    “It is just like you to say something so tasteless.” She stopped, rounding on him in derisive confrontation.
    “I’m appalling,” he agreed softly, gazing into her remarkable eyes, at the moment the shade of a stormy summer sky. “A veritable scoundrel. How did you put it? Oh, yes, licentious.”
    “Your female admirers don’t seem to know that yet.”
    “I have female admirers?” Dangerous ground always, to taunt her, but he liked the reaction. It was something .
    “It seems so. Do not ask me to explain it.” Her voice was lofty, and she resumed their leisurely pace.
    A few steps behind, he indulged himself by admiring the gentle sway of her hips. Then he grinned and fol lowed. He wouldn’t miss the rest of this fascinating ar gument for the world.

Chapter Seven

     
     
     
    T he dinner was a long, boring affair full of political debates and social gossip, and as Luke finished his roast beef, expertly cooked and served with a luxurious sauce of wine and braised shallots, he reflected that at least the food was excellent. Masters had a decent wine cellar also; Luke had probably drunk a bottle of claret just himself.
    Ill-advised, considering his mood.
    It didn’t help to have Madeline sitting across the table, albeit four chairs down, next to a handsome blade named Morrow. She was dazzling this evening in a teal gown that complemented her flawless complexion and showcased her firm, high breasts.
    He didn’t miss a detail, from the lace sewn strategically along the neckline of her gown to the simple pearl earrings and gold bracelet she wore. The lace, he thought in sardonic contemplation, hinted at silken, bared skin in a teasing way, and made the gown more modest—and at the same time more risqué—than it actually was. He guessed her taste was too