If He's Wild Read Free

arrives.”
    “Misery loves company?”
    “Something like that. Oh damn.”
    Before Alethea could ask what had caused her uncle to grow so tense, a lovely, fulsome redhead appeared at his side. If she judged her uncle’s expression correctly, he was not pleased to see this woman, and that piqued Alethea’s interest. Looking more closely at the woman’s classically beautiful face, Alethea saw the hint of lines about the eyes and mouth and suspected the woman was older than Iago. The look the woman gave her was a hard and assessing one. A moment later something about the woman’s demeanor told Alethea that she had not measured up well in the woman’s eyes, that she had just been judged as inconsequential.
    “Where have you been, Iago, darling?” the woman asked. “I have not seen you for a fortnight.”
    “I have been very busy, Margarite,” Iago replied in a cool, distant tone.
    “You work too hard, my dear. And who is your little companion?”
    “This is my niece, Lady Alethea Channing,” Iago said, his reluctance to make the introduction a little too clear in his tone. “Alethea, this is Mrs. Margarite Dellingforth.”
    Alethea curtsied slightly. The curtsy Mrs. Dellingforth gave her in return was so faint she doubted the woman even bent her knees at all. She was glad Iago had glanced away at that precise moment so that he did not see the insult to his kinswoman. The tension roused by this increasingly awkward confrontation began to wear upon Alethea’s already taut nerves. Any other time she knew she would have been fascinated by the subtle, and not so subtle, nuances of the conversation between her uncle and Mrs. Dellingforth, but now she just wanted the cold-eyed woman to leave. She leaned against Iago and began to fan her face.
    “Uncle, I am feeling uncomfortably warm,” she said in what she hoped was an appropriately weak, sickly tone of voice.
    “Would you like to sit down, m’dear?” he asked.
    “You should not have brought her here if she is ill,” said Mrs. Dellingforth.
    “Oh, I am not ill,” said Alethea. “Simply a little overwhelmed.”
    “If you will excuse us, Margarite, I must tend to my niece,” said Iago even as he began to lead Alethea toward some chairs set against the wall.
    “Not a very subtle retreat, Uncle,” murmured Alethea, quickening her step to keep pace with his long stride.
    “I do not particularly care.”
    “The romance has died, has it?”
    “Thoroughly, but she refuses to leave it decently buried.”
    “She is quite beautiful.” Alethea sat down in the chair he led her to and smoothed down her skirts.
    “I know—that is how I became ensnared to begin with.” He collected two glasses of wine from the tray a footman paused to offer them, and handed Alethea one. “It was an extremely short affair. To be blunt, my lust was quickly satisfied, and, once it eased, I found something almost repellent about the woman.”
    Seeing how troubled thoughts had darkened his hazel green eyes, Alethea lightly patted his hand. “If it is any consolation, I, too, felt uneasy around her. I think there is a coldness inside her.”
    “Exactly what I felt.” He frowned and sipped his drink. “I felt some of the same things I do when I am near someone who will soon die, yet I know that is not true of her.”
    “What sort of feelings?”
    He grimaced. “It is hard to explain, but it is as if some piece of them is missing, has clearly left or been taken.”
    “The soul?”
    “A bit fanciful, but, perhaps, as good an explanation as any other. Once my blind lust faded, I could not abide to even touch her, for I could sense that chilling emptiness. I muttered some pathetic excuse and fled her side. She appears unable to believe that I want no more to do with her. I think she is accustomed to being adored.”
    “How nice for her.” Alethea sipped her drink as she watched Mrs. Dellingforth talk to a beautiful fair-haired woman. “Who is that with her now?”
    “Her