Taming Wilde (Waltzing with the Wallflower #3)(16)

“I was going to say ‘practice.’” Anthony scowled at him. “And why shouldn’t I feed you your lines? I’m inclined to believe the trouble was in the delivery. It would have worked splendidly if you had done it right!”

“You are wiping chocolate from your face. That is exactly how well it worked. And look at my face — the mark of your infallible advice. She slapped me.”

“Yes. I am sorry about that.” But Anthony did not look the least bit sorry. “To be fair, I am going to Hell; therefore, I have lost any reason to do good deeds. Perhaps God is punishing me for my past?”

“Punishing you? I’m the one who is suffering!” Colin shook his head. “No, my friend, he’s punishing me for sticking by you during your years of sin.”

“No doubt,” Anthony agreed. “We will just have to try harder to make you desirable to the opposite sex.”

“Are you saying I am not desirable?” Colin’s knees ached from crouching on the ground.

Anthony shrugged. “You look too innocent.”

“Me?” Colin looked around. “I look too innocent?”

“You do not even have circles under your eyes. I’ve got it!” Anthony snapped his fingers. “Stay up all night. There is an establishment I used to frequent. I’ll let the proprietor know to expect you. We’ll have you looking like death in no time!”

“Ah, music to my ears.”

“Ha!” Anthony slapped his back and grinned. “This shall be fun!”

Colin wasn’t so sure about that. Not after the way the evening had turned out. Although the private journal had encouraged seduction, he found he was too tired to think about anything save finding his bed and blocking out the memories of having Gemma in his arms for one dance.

“Come along now. Let me show you how to live!” Anthony pointed toward the front of the house and laughed. Colin, however, cringed; especially considering the minute Anthony’s speech ended, feminine laughter was heard overhead. And where there was laughter, there was trouble.





Chapter Eight


Gentlemen, my wisdom has come at a cost. I have fought a duel over some beautiful woman, only to find that her husband is a crack shot. To prepare for any, er, unfortunate accidents to befall, I suggest a membership at Gentleman Jackson’s. You never know when a man may challenge you with his fists instead of a pistol. Also, it is always prudent to drink whiskey before one shoots his pistol; one never knows when a duel shall be given and a gentleman must always be prepared to hit his target even if whiskey clouds his vision. Practice makes perfect. Men, if you cannot shoot and you cannot fight, you have no business being a rake. To be honest, you have no business calling yourself a man but that is your business. Many wars have been fought over beautiful women, so tread carefully, my good men, and choose your battles wisely. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox



When Miss Priscilla Standish entered the second time from the balcony, looking very upset, Bridget took Gemma by the arm and whispered to her, “I believe we should take some fresh air.”

Gemma followed her swiftly around the room and through the open French doors onto the terrace. She glanced around and saw no one there. No one to have had dealings with Miss Standish.

Bridget guided her to the rail and leaned over the edge slightly, seeming to be looking for something or someone. When she drew back, she winked at Gemma and pointed down silently. Her voice was louder than necessary.

“Tell me, dear Gemma, who is it you’ve decided upon then? It’s been ages since we’ve spoken.”

“I…” Gemma began softly, but Bridget frowned and nodded adamantly at her then gestured below them again. Of course! Wilde could hear them.

She began again with exaggerated passion. “You know, of course, that my brother has been trying to pair me with one of his friends. A Mr. Percival in particular, but I cannot abide the man. And Hawke has been so unyielding in his treatment of me, I have decided to set my cap for someone he hates.”

Bridget giggled. “Gemma, I never knew you to be so rebellious… I rather like it.” Her smile was genuine. Between the two of them, Bridget had always been much more adventurous, the one to step outside the normal boundaries of acceptable behavior in order to be herself. Gemma had always been confined in her role as a proper lady, though it hadn’t seemed restricting until recently. “So who is the fortunate gentleman?”

“There are so many my brother despises that it seems I will have my choice of quite a wide range of rogues. What do you think of Willington?”

From the ground below, something akin to a squirrel choking on a nut echoed up at them. Bridget smiled but spoke over the noise. “I don’t know. He rather looks like my Great Uncle Alfred. And that is not a good thing. Have you considered Riley?”

“I suppose he would be acceptable. I’ve heard positively scandalous tales of what he does with his—”

A fierce gurgling interrupted her point, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“That is to say, he has an interesting way of tying his cravat. Have you seen it?” she said after clearing her throat.

“Hmmm… yes, I have seen that. So scandalous,” Bridget said. “I have heard some intriguing reports of the exploits of Lancaster’s heir. And he has always fit his breeches well, wouldn’t you say?”