Taming Wilde (Waltzing with the Wallflower #3)(4)

“Any idiot can see that,” Anthony argued. “He is more than sad, however. The fellow is positively despairing! Just look at him.”

Both men turned toward Colin. Anthony spoke first. “It’s the eyes. So lifeless, as if a soul is no longer present.”

“And he’s been eating less.” Ambrose.

“And drinking more.” Anthony.

“You do realize I can hear you? Kindly have this discussion elsewhere.” Colin rose to quit the room but was stopped by Anthony’s voice.

“We are only trying to help. Being a rake will get you nowhere except at the opposite end of some angry husband’s pistol.”

“And Anthony would know. After all, he practically lived there for half his life.” Ambrose laughed.

“When one is wicked, one has no time to love, and if one has no time to love, one has no time to feel.” Colin reached the door and opened it.

“But how long can a person rely on their wickedness before it consumes them?” Anthony called after him.

“Forever.” I hope. Colin briskly walked out of the room and back toward the noise of the ball.





Chapter Two


A kiss is never just a kiss. If a rake desires to truly be different than other gentlemen, he must learn the art of the kiss. If it were merely about two lips touching, then every bloke out there could do it. But it is not. The prelude to the kiss is what makes a women crave rakes, not gentlemen. A rake understands that a woman must first be teased, caressed, touched, nibbled, if you will. She must be breathless for more. You must give her the words she longs to hear, and then when she is ripe for the picking, you sweep in and kiss her softly across the mouth while slowly increasing the pressure until she moans. When she moans, you have her. If there is no moaning, then, my friend, it is safe to say, you are doing it all wrong. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox



Gemma scanned the room for a glimpse of Sir Wilde. Her brother had only just allowed her to return to London this week. For whatever reason, he had convinced her parents of the necessity of the prolonged absence. They fully agreed that she should retire to the country estate for a time, to recuperate from her episode with the man they deemed below her station.

She wished she had never told her lady’s maid of what had transpired between her and Sir Wilde. The disloyal girl had turned right around and passed the information directly to Gemma’s brother, Hawke. Enraged, he had stormed from the house to find the offending gentleman to teach him some manners.

To Gemma’s recollection, Wilde’s manner was altogether perfect. She closed her eyes and remembered, replaying the stolen moments they had shared. A wistful sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“My lady, please,” Hawke whispered beside her, tightening his grasp on her arm. “Remember yourself.”

“I am remembering, my lord.” She cast a sidelong glance at her brother and wriggled her arm against his grip. “If you don’t mind, I am quite certain I no longer require your assistance, and you are hurting me.”

His cold stare warned her against giving any sign of impropriety.

Hawke knew what buttons to push with Gemma. Her sense of propriety was ingrained in every fiber of her being. In fact, it was that cursed sense that had mortified her so desperately when she and Wilde had first been caught in the embrace. She’d reacted with utter shame and disgrace at the time. But her long visit to Brookshire had given her ample time to consider the matter.

Looking back on it, Gemma was certain the only thing she would have done differently was insisting Wilde lock the door. That would have solved everything.

A warmth spread through her cheeks to her ears. Who was she fooling? Even yet, the simple memory of Wilde’s lips on hers made her blush to the roots of her hair.

“Take care, sister,” Hawke warned as they approached a group of his acquaintances, pasting a false grin on his face for their benefit. “Percival, Sumner, Everett, Lady Judith, may I present my sister, Lady Gemma, recently returned from Brookshire for the remainder of the Season.”

Gemma had never been introduced to any of them before, but she knew of them. She had heard her parents and Hawke discuss Mr. Percival at great length. He was next in line for the Earldom of Worcester, and one of the Royal Duke’s favorite cousins. No doubt they had designs on him as a match for Gemma. They never said as much in her presence, but they hinted often that she should set her aim higher.

Sir Wilde would never meet their lofty aspirations.

Mr. Sumner, who also was heir to an impressive title, ran a close second in her parents’ opinion, though from the daggers in Lady Judith’s green eyes, he was spoken for whether he knew it or not.

Gemma tried a soft reassuring smile at the other woman, but it was not returned. Etiquette required a curtsy, so Gemma offered it to them with practiced grace.

“Would you care to dance, Lady Gemma?” the gentleman Hawke had referred to as Everett asked her, extending a hand. Then he glanced to her brother. “With your brother’s permission, of course.”

Hawke nodded and lifted Gemma’s arm toward Everett.

Not that I have a choice. “I’d be delighted, sir,” she replied, and slipped her hand onto the gentleman’s proffered arm. If nothing else, it would get her out from under the watchful eye of her overzealous brother for a few brief moments.