Anthony sat back on the chair and laughed. “The trail of seduction. The two discarded glasses of wine, the flirtatious laughter trickling down the hallway, and finally the poetic words you whispered into her ear about the view in the library. Really, Wilde? The view? We must begin with your ability to lie. I find it offensive that you would give all rakes such a bad name. Women do not go to libraries for the view.”
Colin rolled his eyes. “Then what do they follow men down darkened hallways for? Hmm?”
Anthony’s eyes closed as a smirk danced across his features. “What every woman hopes for… they want a kiss. One deliciously wicked kiss before they are to be married.”
“I cannot simply tell a woman I mean to steal them away to kiss them!”
Anthony scrutinized him for a moment. “Whyever not?”
“Because it is—” Colin snapped his mouth shut. He wasn’t completely certain of the answer to that question.
Anthony rose from his chair and approached Colin, stopping directly in front of the chair and leaning down. “You simply close your eyes as if it hurts too much to stare directly at the girl, then you reach up to caress her cheek, like so.” Anthony demonstrated, to Colin’s absolute horror. “And then you say, ‘It is complete torture not knowing what your lips feel like on mine.’”
A throat cleared. Anthony jerked back.
Ambrose, Anthony’s twin, was leaning against the wall, a look of concern on his face as he drew his eyebrows in and coughed. “Hope I’m not intruding, but I was under the impression Colin had been trying to seduce another innocent. Apologies. If I had known it was my own brother, I would have run faster. Tell me, has he succeeded in lifting your skirt, Anthony?”
Anthony cursed his brother and glared at Colin, as if it were his fault that Anthony felt the need to demonstrate his seduction skills.
Ambrose shrugged. “Hmm… You must be out of practice. Since you are both still fully-clothed, I must assume you are losing your touch, dear brother.”
Colin scowled and cursed. “Why must you two constantly plague me?”
“I have an answer to that,” Ambrose announced, thrusting his hand into the air.
“Let’s have it.” Colin gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to go back to the ball, but being stuck in the library with two meddling friends was not on the top of his priority list. Besides, he still hadn’t caught a glimpse of Gemma, and he’d promised himself he would look at her tonight without allowing his heart to break in two. Tonight was the night he was going to finally prove to himself and everyone else that he was done with love, done with her, and done with being a proper gentleman.
“You are sad,” Ambrose stated. As if it was some sort of proclamation from the heavens.
“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.