She missed old Liam Sullivan, who after the holdup inevitably offered them bannock cakes. They ate them greedily, usually with honey, their fingers sticky. She missed the country estate in general, but Luke was probably right. Life had changed. Soon she would be a wife, and eventually, like Amelia, a mother.
Perhaps it was time to grow up.
Well, it wasn’t like she’d
miss
Miles. Besides, she’d still see him every day. They lived, after all, in the same house.
She took a bite of toast. The marmalade seemed a little oversweet for some reason, maybe even cloying. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Luke had a certain way of betraying his amusement. It was subtle, just a unique lift of the corner of his mouth, but it was also hard to miss. “I never win an argument with you so easily.”
“It isn’t like it will be a hardship,” she said coolly. “Miles has his life and I have mine.”
“He has such remarkable energy, doesn’t he?”
Madeline smiled, watching Trevor chase a butterfly through the garden. Her son had inherited his father’s coloring, dark hair and olive skin, and also the same easygoing, almost naive appreciation of the world around him. “He loves being outdoors. I feel a bit guilty when I come down for the season, because I know he misses the freedom of the country. But that huge house and just the two of us ... It was different, of course, when Colin was alive, but now I find it oppressive quickly.”
Marta Langley adjusted the skirt of her elegant day gown, the sun shining on the heavy coil of brunet hair at her nape, her parasol closed and set aside on the stone bench, which was probably not a wise decision, since she had a tendency to freckle. “You need some gaiety in your life, darling. Guilt is a self-destructive emotion most of the time. Besides, you adore Trevor, and he can always come to the country with us. For however long you can bear to be apart from him. You are a wonderful mother, but begin to live your life again for you and not just your son.”
I have.
Yes, Madeline needed something, and last night certainly came to mind.
Luke knew how to arouse a woman’s passions, how to touch in a particular way, to tempt, to taunt, and the exquisite timing of exactly when to give her what she craved. He moved with a carnal precision that spoke of experience and sensual skill, as if he were tuned in to the tingling of her nerve endings, the cravings of her body, the escalation of erotic need. His self control was as flawless as his execution when making love, and when he finally allowed himself to join her, even then she sensed, at the moment of explosive climax, that he held something back.
Whatever happened between them, she did know this: one day she would like to have all of him.
Colin had been an enthusiastic, considerate lover, but there was little question that the rakish Viscount Altea was vastly more experienced. More sensitive too. Though that was a paradox, because no one had been more idealistic than her husband, while Luke Daudet appeared cynical and worldly in the extreme.
There was definitely more to him than met the eye, but ferreting out his secrets was no doubt impossible.
All she knew, she thought as she tilted her face to the beautiful azure sky above and smiled, was that her deci sion to coax him into her bed again had been reckless perhaps, but . . . there were no regrets.
Madeline murmured, “I don’t know if gaiety was pre cisely what I needed, but I
am
glad I came to London.”
“Yes,” her sister in law said after a moment, survey ing her with narrowed eyes. “I can see that. I thought when I arrived this morning you seemed inordinately cheerful. May I ask why?”
“You may ask.” Madeline did her best to sound se rene and detached. “But I doubt I’ll respond. How’s David?”
“What a very pointed and not so subtle change in subject.”
“You noticed.”
Marta sighed theatrically. “Fine, then. I will hope you will tell me eventually. David is fine. We’re staying an other week so he can meet with the prime minister.”
Eventually, perhaps, Madeline thought as she lis tened to Colin’s sister’s recital of their journey from Kent and plans for the week, she might tell Marta about this change in her life. But for now, Luke was her own wicked secret.
“Mama! Auntie Marta!” Trevor walked at a very cir cumspect pace toward them on the stone path through the garden, his hands carefully cupped together. He might look like Colin, but his eyes were hers, the same shape and the exact same color. “Look.”
He opened his hands like a flower in the morning sun, and a small, pale yellow butterfly with black spots sat in the cradle of his palms for a moment before it fluttered away.
Madeline leaned forward and gently brushed his dark curls in a light caress. “How clever of you to catch but not hurt it. What a lovely one too.”
“It was very fine,” Marta told him with a smile.
He grinned and dashed away, intent on yet another capture.
With two healthy sons of her own, Marta was no stranger to young male exuberance. “Ah, to be so fasci nated by an insect. I fear we lose that sort of innocence all too fast.”
“I suppose so.” Madeline watched her son dart through the flower beds. “Though he’s far too young for me to worry over it yet.”
“You shouldn’t have to worry alone. He needs a father.”
Those last four quiet words were unwelcome and Madeline frowned, tucking an errant tendril of hair be hind her ear. “I’ve already told you I don’t believe I wish to marry again. I miss Colin terribly. If he hadn’t died so unexpectedly, I know we would still be happily wed. But to be honest, though I adore my son, I will not marry again just for his sake. Before I blink an eye he will be off to Eton, then Cambridge, and come into his major ity. He’ll embark on his own life, and yet I would still be stuck with a husband. No thank you. I did not wish for widowhood, but since fate has put me in this position, I am determined to enjoy the benefits of my freedom.”
“I doubt my brother would want you to live like a nun the rest of your life.”
Since her behavior the night before was hardly chaste—quite the opposite—Madeline strived to seem nonchalant, but she could feel the inconvenient rush of heat to her face. Marta wanted her to remarry, not form a scandalous liaison with the notorious Viscount Altea. “It would require just the right man and considerable persuasion to make me change my mind.”
“And in the meantime, you are alone. You are entirely too young and beautiful to pine for Colin.”
You are too beautiful. . . .
Luke had said the same words with a restive edge of resentment.
“I am not pining for him.” Madeline chose her words carefully, because it was important. “I am just unwilling to settle for less. If anything, I want more. We had barely been married more than two years before he died. Our relationship was budding, not in full bloom. I was happy with our beginning, so naturally, I wonder what the fra grant garden would have been like.”
Marta looked pensive for a moment, but then smiled and reached over to clasp her hand. “Poetic, my dear, but you must realize that reality is much different than our idealized view of the world.”
Oh, she did. Reality was a silver eyed lover who held his secrets like a miser and dispersed pleasure like a magician.
In the years since Colin died, Luke was the only man to even tempt her to consider a future.
A futile dream, since he wasn’t interested in offering one.
She squeezed Marta’s hand in reassurance. “Please stop worrying about me.”
“That I can’t promise, but I will say if you retain this special glow you have this morning, I will stop the lec tures.” Her sister in law’s gaze was appraising.
Would she retain it? It was hard to say. She’d woken alone, the only sign of Luke’s presence the rumpled other half of the bed. The last time they’d shared a night of passion, he’d avoided her afterward.
This time she was determined that it would be dif ferent.
Chapter Ten
H
e’d really hoped to avoid running into Lord Fitch indefinitely, but logic told Luke it wasn’t possible to dodge the man forever. After all, they did patronize the same club, not to mention attend many of the same social engagements.
“Altea.”
The booming greeting made him glance up from his newspaper, and he gave Fitch a cool nod that hopefully concealed his dislike. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
You sodding lecherous bastard.
It was somewhat satisfying to see the earl sported a gigantic bruise, the purplish discoloration from temple to the line of his jaw a tribute to Madeline’s accuracy with a fireplace poker.
The low hum of voices and the scent of tobacco and brandy filled the air. Usually it was evident if a man was enjoying a quiet moment reading in solitude, but Fitch had never been attuned to subtlety. He pulled out a chair and sat down uninvited, his florid face congenial.
Except Luke didn’t much care for the gleam in the man’s eye.
“It seems I owe you thanks. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I have one.” Luke pointed at the glass of whiskey in front of him. “And if you are talking about the other evening, it was nothing, rest assured. Whatever they are saying, there were no heroics involved.”
Especially since he’d just as soon have dumped his lordship in the filthy waters of the Thames and let him drown.
But, unfortunately, Luke still had
some
scruples, de spite the war. He’d killed men in fair combat, but never murdered one.
Fitch lifted his hand to summon a waiter and ordered a brandy. He was almost two decades older, in his late forties, going slightly to fat around the middle, his fea tures handsome enough but showing signs of dissipation in the reddish veins visible by his nose and his hair lightly streaked with gray. His deep set eyes were hooded, and his expression at the moment was speculative. “I have no idea how I came to be in that alley, if you want the truth. Can you tell me exactly how you found me?”
Luke shrugged, setting aside his paper, since good manners insisted he do so. “I just happened to be pass ing by and spotted you lying there.”
“I wasn’t robbed.”
“Perhaps my arrival scared off your assailant.” In ret rospect, he should have relieved his lordship of his purse and given it to a worthy charity. His mistake, but then again, he didn’t know at the time that Fitch wouldn’t remember the incident.
“Did you see anyone?”
“Actually, no.”
“The steward here said he didn’t remember my ar rival or departure.” His lordship leaned back, his heavy face enigmatic. “You’re certain I was in the alley almost a block away?”
He evaded the direct question. “Maybe you were on your way here. If that was the case, how could the steward remember you?”
“On foot? That’s unlikely. It’s too far, and my driver didn’t take me anywhere.”
The last scenario Luke wanted was for Fitch to eventually recall what really happened, but then again, the implication that he could be lying—though he
wasn’t
telling the truth, but all in a good cause—was intensely irritating. “My lord, are you thanking me for taking you home and summoning the physician, or questioning my rendition of what happened that night?”
Fitch’s hooded eyes narrowed. “I’m missing something and wondering if it is tied to the vicious, unprovoked attack on my person.”
Unprovoked? Luke pictured the man across from him cornering Madeline and fought to keep his face from showing his fury. “I thought you just said you weren’t robbed.”
“Perhaps I should have been more clear. My pockets weren’t picked. I find that most curious, don’t you?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I find it exceptional good luck. So you escaped with your purse
and
your life.” Luke picked up his drink and finished it before setting the glass back down with a definite
click
. “It sounds to me like you should count yourself quite a fortunate man.”
How subtle was he required to be? Should he just go ahead and warn off the blackguard? Fitch was fishing around because it was obvious the doctor was right and he didn’t really remember much, and it was logical to assume that Luke would know more than anyone else. As long as the immoral ass didn’t tie the incident directly back to Madeline . . .
That was, apparently, a dashed hope.
“Not as lucky as you, or so I hear.” Fitch adjusted his cuff with a languid hand, but his flat eyes were watchful. “I understand you left Masters’s last night with Lady Brewer. She’s a pretty piece, if there ever was one. Isn’t she?”
The urge to pick up the man by his collar and shove him against the wall before beating him to a bloody pulp was suppressed, but only barely. That would cause a scandal extraordinaire. One did not rescue a man one day, and then assault him a few days later without draw ing comment. “What the devil are you talking about?” he asked, hoping the murderous flare in his eyes wasn’t too obvious. Normally he had better self control.