Our Wicked Mistake (41 page)

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Authors: Emma Wildes

BOOK: Our Wicked Mistake
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No had Alex managed to close the French doors behind him than the door to the bedroom opened. He froze, hoping the shadows hid his presence, but worried that movement might attract the attention of the young woman who had entered the room. If she raised an alarm, Michael could be in a bad spot, even if Alex got away. Luckily, she carried the small lamp, which she set on the polished table by the bed. He assumed his presence on the balcony would be harder to detect.
It was at that moment he realized how very beautiful she was.
Lord Hathaway’s daughter. Had he met her? No, he hadn’t, but when he thought about it, he’d heard her name mentioned quite often lately. Now he knew why.
Hair a shimmering gold caught the light as she reached up and loosened the pins, dropping them one by one by the lamp and letting the cascade of curls tumble down her back. In profile her face was defined and feminine, with a dainty nose and delicate chin. Though he couldn’t see the color of her eyes, they were framed by lashes long enough they cast slight shadows across her elegant cheekbones as she bent over to lift her skirts, kick off her slippers, and begin to unfasten her garters. He caught the pale gleam of slender calves and smooth thighs, and the graceful curve of her bottom.
There was something innately sensual about watching a woman undress, though usually when it was done in his presence, it was as a prelude to one of his favorite pastimes. Slim fingers worked the fastenings of her gown and in a whisper of silk, it slid off her pale shoulders. She stepped free of the pooled fabric wearing only a thin, lacy chemise, all gold and ivory in the flickering illumination.
As a gentleman,
he reminded himself,
I should politely look away.
The ball had been more nightmare than entertainment, and Lady Amelia Patton had ducked out as soon as pos sible, using her usual—and not deceptive—excuse. She picked up her silk gown, shook it out, and draped it over a carved chair by the fireplace. When her carriage had dropped her home, she’d declined to wake her maid, instead enjoying a few rare moments of privacy before bed. No one would think it amiss, as she had done the same before.
It was a crime, was it not, to kill one’s father?
Not that she
really
wanted to strangle him in any way but a metaphorical one, but this evening, when he had thrust her almost literally into the arms of the Earl of Westhope, she had nearly done the unthinkable and re fused to dance with his lordship in public, thereby hu miliating the man and defying her father in front of all of society.
Instead, she had gritted her teeth and waltzed with the most handsome, rich, incredibly
boring
eligible bach elor of the
haut ton
.
It had encouraged him, and that was the last thing she had wanted to happen.
The earl had even had the nerve—or maybe it was just stupidity—to misquote Rabelais when he brought her a glass of champagne, saying with a flourish as he handed over the flute, “Thirst comes with eating . . . but the appetite goes away with drinking.”
It had really been all she could do not to correct him, since he’d got it completely backward. She had a sink ing feeling that he didn’t mean to be boorish; he just wasn’t very bright. Still, there was nothing on earth that could have prevented her from asking him, in her most proper voice, if that meant he was bringing her cham pagne because he felt, perhaps, she was too plump. Her response had so flustered him that he’d excused himself hurriedly—so perhaps the entire evening hadn’t been a loss after all.
Clad only in her chemise, she went to the balcony doors and opened them, glad of the fresh air, even if it was a bit cool. Loosening the ribbon on her shift, she let the material drift partway down her shoulders, her nipples tightening against the chill. The ballroom had been unbearably close and she’d had some problems breathing, an affliction that had plagued her since childhood. Being able to fill her lungs felt like heaven and she stood there, letting her eyes close. The light wheezing had stopped, and the anxiety that came with it had lessened as well, but she was still a little dizzy. Her father was insistent that she kept this particular flaw a secret. He seemed convinced no man would wish to marry a female who might now and again become inexplicably out of breath.
Slowly she inhaled and then let it out. Yes, it was passing. . . .
It wasn’t a movement or noise that sent a flicker of unease through her, but a sudden, instinctive sense of being watched. Then a strong, masculine hand cupped her elbow. “Are you quite all right?”
Her eyes flew open and she saw a tall figure looming over her. With a gasp she jerked her chemise back up to cover her partially bared breasts. To her surprise, the shadowy figure spoke again in a cultured, modulated voice. “I’m sorry to startle you, my lady. I beg a thousand pardons, but I thought you might faint.”
Amelia stared upward, as taken aback by his polite speech and appearance as she was by finding a man lurk ing on her balcony. The stranger had ebony hair, glossy in the inadequate moonlight, and his face was shadowed by hollows and fine planes, eyes dark as midnight staring down at her. “I . . . I . . .” she stammered.
You should scream,
an inner voice suggested, but she was so paralyzed by alarm and surprise, she wasn’t sure she was capable of it.
“You swayed,” her mysterious visitor pointed out, as if that explained everything, a small frown drawing dark, arched brows together. “Are you ill?”
Finally, she found her voice, albeit not at all her regu lar one, but a high, thin whisper. “No, just a bit dizzy. Sir, what are you doing here?”
“Maybe you should lie down.”
To her utter shock, he lifted her into his arms as easily as if she were a child, and actually carried her inside to deposit her carefully on the bed.
Perhaps this is a bizarre dream. . . .
“What are you doing here? Who are you?” she de manded. It wasn’t very effective, since she still couldn’t manage more than a half mumble, though fright was be ing replaced rapidly by outraged curiosity. Even in the insubstantial light she could tell he was well dressed, and before he straightened, she caught the subtle drift of expensive cologne. Though he wore no cravat, his dark coat was fashionably cut, and his fitted breeches and Hessians not something she imagined an ordinary footpad would wear. His face was classically handsome, with a nice, straight nose and lean jaw, and she’d never seen eyes so dark.
Was he really that tall or did he just seem so because she was sprawled on the bed and he was standing?
“I mean you no harm. Do not worry.”
Easy for him to say. For heaven’s sake, he was in her bedroom, no less. “You are trespassing.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, inclining his head.
Was he a thief? He didn’t look like one. Confused, Amelia sat up, feeling very vulnerable lying there in dishabille with her tumbled hair. “My father keeps very little money in his strongbox here in the house.”
“A wise man. I follow that same rule myself. If it puts your mind at ease, I do not need his money.” The strang er’s teeth flashed white in a quick smile.
She recognized him, she realized suddenly, the situa tion taking on an even greater sense of the surreal. Not a close acquaintance, no. Not one of the many gentlemen she’d danced with since the beginning of her season, but she’d seen him, nevertheless.
And he certainly had seen
her
. She was sitting there gawping at him in only her thin, lacy chemise with the bodice held together in her trembling hand. The flush of embarrassment swept upward, making her neck and cheeks hot. She could feel the rush of blood warm her knuckles when they pressed against her chest. “I . . . I’m undressed,” she said, unnecessarily.
“Most delightfully so,” he responded with an unmistakable note of sophisticated amusement in his soft tone. “But I am not here to ravish you any more than to rob you. Though,” he added with a truly wicked smile, “perhaps, in the spirit of being an effective burglar, I should steal
something
. A kiss comes to mind, for at least then I would not leave empty-handed.”
A kiss?
Was the man insane?
“You . . . wouldn’t,” she managed to object in disbelief. He still stood by the side of the bed, so close if she reached out a hand, she could touch him.
“I might.” His dark brows lifted a fraction, and his gaze flickered over her inadequately clad body before returning to her face. He added softly, “I have a weakness for lovely, half-dressed ladies, I’m afraid.”
And no doubt they had the same weakness for him, for he exuded a flagrant masculinity and confidence that was even more compelling than his good looks.
Her breath fluttered in her throat and it had nothing to do with her affliction. She might be an ingenue, but she understood in an instant the power of that devastating, entirely masculine, husky tone. Like a bird stunned by smoke, she didn’t move, even when he leaned down and his long fingers caught her chin, tipping her face up just a fraction. He lowered his head, brushed his mouth against hers for a moment, a mere tantalizing touch of his lips. Then, instead of kissing her, his hand slid into her hair and he gently licked the hollow of her throat. Through her dazed astonishment at his audacity, the feel of his warm lips and the teasing caress caused an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach.
This was where she should have imperiously ordered him to stop, or at least push him away.
But she didn’t. She’d never been kissed, and though, admittedly, her girlish fantasies about this moment in her life hadn’t included a mysterious stranger stealing uninvited into her bedroom, she
was
curious.
The trail of his breath made her quiver, moving up ward along her jaw, the curve of her cheek, until he fi nally claimed her mouth, shocking her to her very core as he brushed his tongue against hers in small, sinful strokes.
She trembled, and though it wasn’t a conscious act, somehow one of her hands settled on his shoulder.
It was intimate.
It was beguiling.
Then it was over.
God help her, to her
disappointment
it was over.
He straightened and looked more amused than ever at whatever expression had appeared on her face. “A virgin kiss. A coup indeed.”
He obviously knew that had been her first. It wasn’t so surprising, for like most unmarried young ladies, she was constantly chaperoned. She summoned some af front, though, strangely, she really wasn’t affronted. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“Oh, I am, if a somewhat jaded one. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be taking my leave, lest your reputation be tar nished by our meeting, because it would be, believe me. My advice is to keep my presence here this evening to yourself.”
True to his word, in a moment he was through the balcony doors, climbing up on the balustrade, and brac ing himself for balance on the side of the house. Then he caught the edge of the roof, swung up in one graceful, athletic motion, and was gone into the darkness.
Read on for a preview of Emma Wildes’s next enthralling historical romance
His Sinful Secret
third in the Notorious Bachelors series Coming from Signet Eclipse in November 2010
“T
his should have been stitched together.”Fitzhugh tossed aside the crusty bandage and sent him a level glare of disapproval. “I say you should damn the questions and summon a physician to look at it, sir. It’s a right nasty one.”
Michael returned the look with a small smile, though the injury was sore as hell and the removal of the wrapping had caused a light sweat to sheen his skin. “I am uninterested in having a physician perhaps reveal to someone he treated the Marquess of Longhaven for a knife wound. I’ve been hurt worse, and you’ve seen to it. Stop fussing and just get on with it.”
The older man shook his head but obeyed, cleaning the wound and placing clean linen on it before wrapping strips of cloth to keep the pad in place. Stocky, weathered, and trustworthy, he played valet with as much efficiency as he’d performed his duties when they had served together under Wellington’s command. A few moments later Michael eased into his shirt and surveyed his appearance in the mirror. Clean-shaven and dressed, he looked perfectly normal, except maybe for the faint shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t slept well, partly due to the wound itself, and partly due to its cause.

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