Free Our Wicked Mistake by Emma Wildes Page B

refined to wear a gown that low-cut without the suggestive lace, but enjoyed the illusion of scandalous adventure.
    Her dinner companion hadn’t missed that comparison either. The impudent young man alternated between surreptitiously ogling her décolletage and leaning over to whisper in her ear. Not that Luke particularly cared whom she chose to flirt with, but surely she could do better than that young cub.
    Or he thought he didn’t care. After a few glasses of wine, he found perhaps he did.
    The entire evening annoyed him. If it wasn’t for Elizabeth, he wouldn’t have agreed to come in the first place.
    “Such pleasant weather we’ve been having, isn’t it, Lord Altea?”
    He managed to wrest his attention from his wineglass long enough to look politely at the plump matron seated next to him. “Yes,” he said abstractly. “Very pleasant.”
    Ye gods, had he really just said something so inane?
    Lady Bunton, or Button, or whatever her deuced name might be—he’d been introduced, but couldn’t remember—leaned forward a conspiratorial distance. “So very brave of you to rescue Lord Fitch the other evening. I understand you single-handedly ran off an entire mob of footpads.”
    He almost choked on his wine.
    The ridiculous story was out of hand, but luckily, since the nefarious Fitch really didn’t seem to remember what happened and they now had the journal, thanks to Michael, Madeline was kept out of it. He risked another swift glance across the table, saw her gazing his direction, and quickly looked back at Lady B. “I’m afraid that’s an exaggeration, madam. I merely happened to notice him lying in the alley unconscious and took him home. No bravery involved.”
    She beamed at him. “You are being too modest.”
    Heaven help him. He gestured to have his wineglass refilled. To his relief, the dessert course arrived and Lady B was effectively diverted by chocolate pudding with hard sauce.
    When their hostess announced it was time to retire to the drawing room for a round of charades, Luke knew with every fiber of his being that he could not endure an insipid moment of it. As the exodus began from the dining room, he quietly pulled Miles aside into a corner by the pedimented doorway. “Will you please escort my mother and Elizabeth home?”
    “I take it the idea of watching Lady Helton act out parts of Macbeth doesn’t hold much appeal?” Miles grinned, but it turned into a grimace. “That was a rhe torical question, of course. Not for me either, if you want the truth. But I’ll be happy to see the ladies home safely.” Then in a very diplomatic, casual voice, his step cousin asked, “Is anything wrong?”
    “Nothing.” A lie, but Luke wasn’t about to explain. “I’d just appreciate a reprieve from having to be so cial this evening. If I stayed, I feel certain I would put my fist through a wall. Bloody bad manners in polite company.”
    “You have seemed a bit grim lately.” Miles’s gaze was not openly inquisitive, but Luke could feel the unsaid question.
    “Ennui,” Luke said curtly.
    “I see.” His cousin hesitated, and then said bluntly, “Oh, hell. I refused to meddle, and I still have no inten tion of prying, but just know Elizabeth is worried about you. To tell the truth, I’ve wondered what might be both ering you.”
    He’d always liked Miles. Even when as children he and Elizabeth were running amok, causing havoc all over the estate, Luke had thought Miles basically a lev elheaded individual, a foil for his somewhat impulsive younger sister. At twenty two, Miles was venturing into business with a sound concept that had intrigued inves tors, Luke among them. He had no doubt his stepcousin was astute enough to be successful.
    But he wasn’t at all in the mood for confidences, no matter how much he liked and trusted Miles. “The mood will pass,” he murmured negligently. “Tell her to worry instead about her own life. I am glad she’s enjoying the season, but she needs