“It was a kiss to seal our betrothal,” he said, exhaling in satisfaction. “No one even looks the least bit shocked.”
“As you say,” she retorted, sweeping ahead of him to the doors of the salon for their celebration supper.
Devon followed her with a reluctant smile, pausing at the door to glance at his brother. “Did I redeem myself to your satisfaction?”
Grayson gazed at Jocelyn’s receding figure. “It’s not my satisfaction that you need seek, although it seems to me she’s already—”
Devon glanced up at the soft cry that came from Lady Winifred. She was standing behind Jocelyn at the end of the candlelit corridor outside the salon. At first he could see no reason why both women seemed to be frozen in their tracks.
Then he gazed down the hall in the direction of Jocelyn’s gaze, and what he saw brought his blood to a sudden boil. Propped up between two enormous stone urns loomed a mahogany coffin in which was laid Devon’s infamous black velvet domino and below it a wreath of dead weeds and dried flowers. An old skull served as the head.
Nailed to the base of the coffin was a crude placard in the shape of a gravestone that read:
Lord Devon Boscastle
Better off Dead than Wed.
He strode to Jocelyn’s side, his jaw tightening in uncontrolled fury. He caught a glint of pain in her gaze that was quickly masked before she gave a low stilted laugh. “I have nothing to do with this,” he said, turning her in the opposite direction.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” she asked softly.
He allowed his sister Emma to brush around him to grasp Jocelyn’s arm. “It’s just a silly prank,” Emma said in a clipped voice. “You are not to let it upset you.”
Jocelyn nodded slowly. “Of course not.”
He ground his jaw. “I don’t find it at all amusing.”
Jocelyn smiled wanly, shaking her head at the small crowd gathering to witness her reaction to this unprecedented insult. “I only want to know where the bridal coffin is, and if I could please select the gown for my demise. I do not have a domino of my own.”
His dark gaze swept the faces of those around them. “If I do find out who did this, I vow that coffin will be put into service.”
She touched his arm. “Let’s go to supper, Devon. There was no true harm done, and nobody’s going to confess with you threatening to commit murder.”
He stood, his anger escalating as she walked past the hideous coffin, Emma and Winifred like guardian angels at her side. He knew she was only trying to be reasonable, and if someone wanted to play a joke on him, he could take it. Pranks were one thing at a party, but that didn’t mean she deserved to be the target of someone’s malicious sense of humor.
“I bloody well mean to know who did this,” he said, swiveling to stare at the remaining guests who had not been able to tear themselves away from the grim surprise. The ladies had been thoughtfully whisked through a side door by Lord Fernshaw’s servants.
His gaze narrowed on the dark unsmiling face of his cousin.
“It wasn’t me,” Gabriel said quickly. “Trust me, I have far better ways to spend my time.”
Devon shook his head. “So I noticed in the salon.”
“I wasn’t aware you were so possessive,” Gabriel said carefully. “I was only holding your place.”
Devon’s mouth thinned. He was perfectly aware Gabriel was not capable of this sort of cruelty, but he’d be damned if he knew who was.
“Gentlemen,” Grayson said, laying a firm hand on the shoulder of each man. “Let us not give the ton any more reason to talk. If you have this much energy to expend, save it for Alton’s tournament. Or better yet, join Jocelyn at supper.”
Gabriel glanced at Devon and nodded. “Friends, cousin?”
Devon nodded his head in apology. “Help me get that damned coffin outside before anyone else comes upon it.”
Gabriel nodded. “I can do one better. Why don’t I pay a visit to the village undertaker and ask if he’s sold any coffins lately?”
Jocelyn was amazed at the attention she was paid at the supper table. Scalawags and unattached men who would never have dared approach a young lady of her stainless character before paid her court. Flattering toasts were made in her honor. At one point she even toasted herself and the empty coffin, ending her eulogy to Devon with the promise that she would “resurrect him on their wedding night.”
Adam shook his head at her uncharacteristic display of spirit, slouching in his chair. It was obvious his opinion of her was lowering by the hour. Her brother smiled blankly. A few kinder guests whispered that the sight of the coffin had been too much for Miss Lydbury to bear. She was coming undone from the strain.
“I think you’ve drunk more than your share of claret,” Winifred whispered in her ear on the pretext of dropping her fork.
Jocelyn bent down under the table to whisper back, “Why? Didn’t you get to drink your share?”
“One of us should remain sober, don’t you think?” Winifred whispered reproachfully.
Jocelyn nodded in agreement. “Good idea. I shall concern myself with drinking, and you, Winifred dear, shall do the thinking.”
“He gave you a diamond tiara, Jocelyn.”
She reached up to steady the gold circlet that threatened to slip over one eye. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? He’s beautiful, too. But somebody thinks that by marrying me his life will end.”
Lady Winifred frowned as an unrestrained chorus of male laughter broke out around the table. “I never thought to see the day when you would be brought to…to…”
“You’re turning into an old prude,” Jocelyn said, lifting her head.
“You have broken Adam’s heart,” Winifred said in distress.
“What was Miss Lydbury looking for under the table?” one of her newfound admirers called from his chair in a cheerful voice.
Winifred gave Jocelyn a wry glance. “Her dignity. It seems to have disappeared.”
The young man laughed harder. “Well, in that case, let dignity be lost. It’s a damned nuisance, anyway.” He rose from the table to approach Jocelyn’s chair. “Or should we look for it together?”
She giggled, and if she’d had her wits about her she would have sensed the spellbinding silence that fell over the table before she did. A disturbingly familiar hand covered hers and firmly removed the glass she was holding. Devon had returned from his grim duty of having his coffin taken from the castle.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been toasting our betrothal without me, darling,” he said, resting his chin against her nape. “I thought I’d been forgiven for being late.”
She angled her head to glance up at him. It didn’t seem fair that three glasses of claret had not rendered her any less immune to his presence. Her heart still quickened as his gaze traveled over her. That awful tightness in her throat still made it difficult to breathe. And she still remembered all too vividly the brand of his sinful mouth on her bare breasts. The thought of the liberties she’d allowed him brought heated blood to her face.
“Fancy me,” she murmured. “Look who’s back from the dead.”
His smile held a hard edge that made her squirm in her seat. “Someone is going to wish for death, I promise you.”
“It was only meant as a joke, wasn’t it?” she queried slowly.
He looked into her eyes. “Were you amused?”
“In a macabre sense,” she admitted. “It would have been more amusing if I didn’t feel personally responsible for putting you in the grave.”
He nudged aside the avid-eyed baronet who was sitting at her left side and swung his lanky frame into the empty chair. “Do I look dead to you?” he asked quietly, his brow arching.
She drew her breath. “No, Devon. Not in the least.”
He claimed her wrist and drew her from the chair. “We have not danced together yet.”
“Please, not tonight.”
He cast her an appraising look as he led her onto the dance floor. “Yes,
tonight. You will not show anyone that you care what is thought of you.”
She was surprised to find herself able to move through the figures of the set. Surprised that his calm words gave her courage. How many times had she danced and flirted with young men in the hope of a proposal? Of love? This man did not love her at all, and she wasn’t decided what she felt for him. The only relief was that he seemed easy to confide in, a surprise considering the deception that had brought them together. Desire and confidence. Was it enough upon which to build a marriage?
She realized suddenly that he was staring at her, studying her face as if this were the first time they’d met. He wasn’t smiling, either, and the dark spark of sensuality in his eyes sent little shocks through her body.
How handsome he was. Those wicked blue eyes, his chiseled bones, the strong clefted chin. The beauty of an archangel. How easy it would be to fall hopelessly in love with him.
“I’m sorry for what just happened,” he said, his hand on her shoulder, urging her a little closer.
It seemed unfair that his touch could make everything seem tolerable. She made no attempt to move away. In fact, she felt as if she were magnetized to his hard, powerful body. Drawn to him and stripped completely of her defenses.
“Your friends are placing bets on whether you will even meet me at the altar,” she said, stealing another look at his face.
“Those are not my friends.”
But would he meet her? she wondered.
He glanced past her to the door. Jocelyn wondered if she would see Lily Cranleigh standing behind her if she turned around. She gazed resolutely at Devon instead.
The dance ended. She retreated, her gaze moving unwillingly across the room to the door. If Lily had been waiting for him, she was not now. And whatever Devon might have felt for Mrs. Cranleigh, whom everyone knew he had pursued, he did not leave Jocelyn’s side until the sky began to lighten and the weary guests sought their beds in anticipation of what scandals the next day might bring.
It was overcast the following morning. Jocelyn tarried in her room until breakfast was over. Then, when she thought the coast was clear, she sneaked downstairs and went for a bracing walk alone around the wooded estate.
Some of the guests had gone back to bed, despite the disturbance of hammers banging and men shouting from the clearing where the annual tournament would be held three days hence, on Thursday. Tents with fluttering banners and gold-tasseled valances were being erected around the jousting arena. From the slope where she stood hiding she could see several men practicing on horseback.
She did not spy Devon’s tall figure among those practicing, although she could hardly miss his cousin Gabriel thundering across the lawn on a muscular black steed.
He reined in and waved at her, proving that she was not well-hidden in the least.
She pretended not to see him and climbed down the slope to return to the castle, then stopped. A man appeared to be skulking in the great hornbeam grove she had cut through to avoid bumping into anyone she knew. There was absolutely no way to escape walking by him. She took a breath and barreled on.
Her heart sank when he turned toward her. “Adam,” she said, finding it suddenly difficult to swallow. “Are you on your way to practice for the tournament?”
“If I participate, I shall most likely direct my lance at Devon Boscastle’s black heart,” he said bluntly.
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“I think so,” she said softly.
“Well, I bloody well don’t.”
She didn’t, either, not really. None of it made sense. And she would never, ever admit this to Adam, but marrying Devon Boscastle was not anywhere near as distressing as it should be. As a matter of fact, it was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. The only wonderful thing.
She glanced around. No one at the jousting arena could see them, although she couldn’t be sure about the view from the castle windows. She had dreaded the inevitable moment when she would face Adam alone, but at the very least she owed him one final conversation. A conversation that she apparently was meant to carry herself.
He examined her in frowning silence for such a long time that she began to hum and edge away. He looked as if he had not slept in days. His face seemed a bit pale, and the size of his chin more pronounced. She did not blame him for hating her, but she wished he’d at least understand that none of this was her doing.
“Adam,” she began in hesitation, “I—”
“That same night that you met Devon in the tower,” he interrupted in a strangled voice, “I had just asked your father for your hand. I wanted to surprise you.” He paused as if to let his confession sink in. “But, blast it,” he said, his voice rising, “you went and surprised us all to hell, didn’t you?”
“You don’t understand.”
He shook his head. “I wanted it to be proper and respectful. I’d no idea you were a woman who would let herself be seduced by a man like Boscastle.”
“I thought I was meeting you,” she exclaimed.
He regarded her with a chastising scowl. “Why would I do anything as reckless as to invite you to tryst in the tower? There are mice in places like that, you know.”
“I thought you might have wanted to propose to me in a romantic setting.”
“Mice are not in the least bit romantic.” He examined her with a rather pained expression. “I wanted to tell you in private that I’m prepared to call out Boscastle for what he’s done to you.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, aghast. “You’ve never fought a duel before. He has.” At least she’d heard rumors to that effect. One only had to see the two men together to realize that Adam could never best Devon on a dueling field.
“I’m well aware of that,” he said crossly. “And I don’t particularly want to challenge him, but I feel as if I’ve been horribly wronged.”
“So does he.”
“Not by me, he hasn’t. Surely you don’t believe all that nonsense about someone sending you a note in my name, and that Devon just happened to be invited, too. He’s a known rake, Jocelyn. He’s always entangled in one affair or another.”
“I think I do believe him,” she said, only realizing it now herself. “He’s—” She looked up suddenly. “He’s coming. Dear heaven, that’s him coming through the trees toward us now.” And she didn’t know why she should feel this sudden sense of panic intermingled with anticipation, but she did.
Adam’s eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t stand so close to me.”
“There’s a virtual chasm between us,” she said under her breath and forced herself not to jump back as if they had indeed done something wrong.
Not that she or Adam had any reason to feel guilty, unless one took into account the fact that they had been discussing killing Devon. By the cynical glance he gave them, he might have overheard the incriminating part of the conversation.
“Well, look at this,” he said, stopping short as if he were completely taken by surprise. “If it isn’t my bride-to-be. And Chiswick. Together. Should I leave the two of you alone to lament what might have been?”
Jocelyn pursed her lips. “I’ll do my lamenting in private, thank you. I was just leaving.”
“So was I,” Adam said stiffly.
“Well, don’t let me chase you off,” Devon said. “Carry on with your conversation. I believe I heard mention of my name in connection with a duel. Is there something I should know? People can get killed during duels, you know.”
Adam turned such a waxen shade of white that Jocelyn thought he might swoon. She had no choice but to come to his rescue. “We were only discussing who would be challenging whom in this year’s tournament.”
Devon stretched his arms into the air, drawing her gaze to the lean, tapering lines of his torso. “Ah, yes, the tournament. I’m looking forward to a good fight this year for some odd reason. I hope whoever challenges me is prepared to be pounded into the ground.”
He looked capab
le of it, too, she thought ruefully. Fit. Virile. Muscular. A young male at the peak of his prowess. “Did you come here to tell Adam how well you felt?” she asked pointedly.
He flexed his shoulders again and smiled. “Would you care to practice against me, Adam?”
She wasn’t sure, because she didn’t dare look in his direction, but she thought Adam might have swayed on his feet.
“Fernshaw’s said to be offering a spectacular prize this year,” Devon added as an afterthought. “I’ve heard it’s a fine piece of horseflesh.”
Adam had regained his color if not his confidence. “If it’s all the same to you, I shall practice later in the afternoon.”
Devon gave a careless shrug, then glanced up at the darkening sky. “It doesn’t matter to me, although it does look as if it’s going to thunder.” He dropped his gaze and looked directly at Jocelyn. “Perhaps you ought to return to the castle before it starts to rain. Unless, of course, you and Chinny are not finished with your conversation.”
She shook her head. She couldn’t think of anything else to say without making the situation worse. “I believe we’re finished.”
Devon cut a sharp glance at Adam. “Are you finished, Chinny?”
Adam squared his shoulders, his chin jutting forward. “Completely.”
“Then why don’t you go away?” Devon asked quietly.
And that was the moment when Jocelyn realized that for all his playful charm, there was far more to Devon Boscastle than he let on. If he wasn’t the archfiend himself, he had to be one of his favorite sons, and no matter how he acted the insouciant, there was little that escaped his perception.
Chapter Nine
Devon strode toward the clearing on the outskirts of the castle where the tournament would be held. Carpenters hammered away at makeshift stands for the spectators. A few of the bolder ladies had already gathered to watch the young male guests practice their swordplay and riding skills behind the wooden barrier erected for tilting.
Lily sat in a green silk dress and cloak on a bale of straw. She turned her face away when she spotted Devon and stared absorbedly at Gabriel galloping across the field. Devon couldn’t tell whether the swelling on her nose had gone down or not. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to care one way or the other.
The Sinful Nights of a Nobleman Page 9
