Our Wicked Mistake by Emma Wildes Read Free Book Online Page B

away, even though it was full summer and the air was warm, sticky even. He swallowed against the protestation of a dry-as-dust throat, and stumbled out of the bed.
    “Damnation,” he muttered, “when will it stop?”
    Naked, he walked to the window, shoved up the sash so he could catch the hint of a breeze, and braced his hands on the sill, taking a deep lungful of air. Looking out, he didn’t see the neat, shadowed paths and cultivated flower beds of the formal back garden, but instead a rocky slope, icy cold in the grip of a Spanish winter, a ruined convent silhouetted against a lurid sky, and the licking flames leaping upward, devouring without mercy. . . .
    In his nightmares, he heard the screams. In truth, that hellish night had been quiet except for the demonic crackle of the fire.
    She’d looked so beautiful that day in her mother’s mantilla, her dark hair shining as she knelt before the altar and placed her hand in his, the candles flickering around them. He barely remembered the ceremony, simply repeating the words, and then it was done.
    She was his wife.
    What a pity that same day he discovered only fools fall in love during a war. . . .
    His face was wet. Perspiration, not tears , he told himself, and went to the basin to dip a cloth in the tepid water and wipe his sticky skin. He dressed quickly, because he knew from experience he would not be able to go back to sleep. Breeches buttoned hastily, shirt tucked in haphazardly, boots pulled on, no coat ... it was too warm to need one. Raking his fingers carelessly through his hair, he went down the stairs of the Mayfair mansion in the dark, knowing the way so well he didn’t need more than the obscure moonlight slanting through the gallery windows to negotiate the long, quiet hallways.
    The walk to St. James Street was dark, his restless footsteps echoing, his pace exacting as he tried to erase the dream through physical exertion. He went up the steps of the elegant town house, used his personal key, and let himself into a foyer that carried a hint of lily of the valley perfume. Once upon a time—what seemed like a distant life—he had bought the town house for himself. When his father died and Luke inherited the title, he’d been in Spain. On his return, he had moved into the viscount’s apartments in the sprawling family home, albeit with reluctance, because of his sense of duty.
    A lamp was still lit down the hallway, but he wasn’t surprised. Regina kept odd hours. He’d rather counted on it. She also always had a decanter of his favorite whiskey on hand for his visits, and he’d counted on that too.
    She was in the library in her dressing gown, frowning over a series of drawings scattered all over the floor, her long hair in a veil over her face until she glanced up as he entered the room. The tall bookcases were shrouded, the furniture pushed to the side to give more space for the informal display of her work. “I thought I heard someone open the door. What time is it?”
    “Late.” Luke smiled wryly. “Or early, depending on how you look at it.” Her unconcern for an unknown per son entering her home was all too typical. Luckily she had a competent housekeeper who looked after mun dane matters such as locking the doors at night.
    “I don’t look at it at all.” Regina rose gracefully from the floor and smoothed her indigo silk dressing gown, a faint smile on her face. “My eclectic psyche doesn’t reg ister the movements of the sun, you know that.”
    She was only half joking. His half sister was an art ist, and a free spirit extraordinaire. “I’ve noticed. Is this a new project?” He gestured at the charcoal sketches. “Usually you work in colors.”
    “I’m always experimenting.” She walked over to a small table, lifted the crystal top of a decanter, dashed amber liquid into a faceted cut glass tumbler, and came over to hand it to him.
    “I didn’t say I wanted a drink.” He looked around for a place to sit, since the