The Wedding Night of an English Rogue is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Ivy Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2005 by Maria Hoag
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ivy Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ivy Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-48468-0
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Excerpt from The Wedding Night of an English Rogue
Other Books by Jillian Hunter
For my talented editor, Charlotte Herscher, who has worked so hard to bring out the best in the Boscastles and in me as a writer. Working with you is a pleasure.
Chapter 1
Mayfair
1814
Until this evening Lieutenant Colonel Lord Heath Boscastle had been living under the pleasant illusion that he was the master of his own fate. It wasn’t that he had escaped bad fortune. On the contrary. He had met and overcome more than his fair share of adversity. It seemed that he deserved peace. After all, he’d survived war, torture, espionage, two volatile mistresses, and a family that challenged the rules of Society on a regular basis.
It was, perhaps, a credit to his cumulative experiences that he managed to hide his astonishment at what his friend, Colonel Sir Russell Althorne, had just asked of him.
A man less adept than Heath at concealing his emotions might have given himself away. He displayed no reaction whatsoever. Most likely he was in a mild state of shock. He’d half expected Althorne to call him back into military service. As a soldier, that is, not a lady’s companion. He had not anticipated a reminder of a past sexual escapade . . . as unforgettable as that escapade had been.
“Well,” Russell asked him for the second time, “will you do it or not? I would prefer to leave London with an easy mind. Will you take care of Julia for me while I’m gone?”
“You might have given me a little more notice.”
“You’ve been in Hampshire.”
“You could have written.”
“What? So that you had time to refuse?”
Heath shook his head. “You’re all damned heart, aren’t you?”
The two men stood at the top of the Mayfair mansion’s magnificent stone staircase. To anyone observing them from the candlelit ballroom below, they appeared to be a pair of bored male guests who had retreated from the noisy crowd to puff their cigars in peace.
They had strengthened their friendship as raw light cavalry officers in Sahagun when ambushes and battles, intelligence gathering and patrols in the icy dark had beckoned to their thirst for adventure. Unfortunately Heath had gotten caught on one of those adventures, and it had been Colonel Sir Russell Althorne, his superior officer, who had rescued him, losing his left eye in the process, and earning a hero’s acclaim.
“I can’t do it.” Heath gazed through a cloud of smoke at the figures that wove through the porphyry marble columns below. He wondered distractedly if the woman he and Russell had been discussing was down there in the crush. Would they recognize each other? What would they say? It would be damned uncomfortable, considering their short but memorable history. “I haven’t seen Julia in years. I had no idea her husband was dead, or that she’d returned to England.”
Or that Russell, predator and hero of the hour that he was, had already gotten himself engaged to her. Althorne had always been an ambitious, competitive sort, even as far back as their college days. He seemed determined to leave his mark on the world. “I had to talk her into accepting my proposal,” Russell said, his voice more than a little baffled. He stood several inches shorter than Heath, with a heavier frame, rust-brown hair, hazel eyes, and rugged features. His was a rough appeal; what he lacked in refinement he made up for in resolve. “Can you believe it? Julia refusing me.”
“What could she have been thinking?” Heath murmured.
“Obviously she wasn’t.” Russell smiled down at a young debutante who had caught his eye. Flustered, she bumped ungracefully into her dance partner.
Russell laughed.
Heath sighed. “Is she in danger?”
“I don’t know,” Russell replied. “Julia’s aunt is convinced that their town house is being watched. I doubt it. Lady Dalrymple is a notorious corkbrain. Still, I do not think it is wise to underestimate Auclair. The man fights deadly duels for amusement. His quest for revenge seems personal.”
“How do you know this?”
Russell’s jaw tightened. “He’s made it known in underworld circles that he wants to destroy me.”
“The war is over.”
“Apparently Auclair’s taste for violence has not been sated. He was last seen haunting Tortoni’s and other cafés in search of a good fight. His behavior is nothing a rational mind can understand.”
Heath lapsed into silence. It was no secret to either man that Armand Auclair was their mutual nemesis, a former French spy who had tortured not only Heath but countless other English soldiers and had eluded capture in Portugal. Neither Heath nor Russell had ever seen Auclair’s face. He had conducted his interrogations wearing an executioner’s mask. Russell was well aware of the horror that Auclair had inflicted on the men he had taken prisoner. Most had died.
But did Russell have any idea what the woman he planned to marry had meant to Heath? What had happened that August long ago?
Of course not. Presumably Julia had not told him. This conversation would not be taking place if she had.
Heath’s encounter with Julia Hepworth had been a passionate if too-brief private affair. There was not a soul in the world who knew that he had desired her ever since the day she had shot him in the shoulder several years ago. That she was the only woman he wished he had not lost. He’d hesitated to acknowledge it even to himself. It was only as he grew older that he realized he had never replaced her.
She hadn’t permanently hurt him, but he’d never been quite the same. Damaged where it didn’t show.
He’d been sneaking up on Russell from behind a carn to play a prank, and Julia had taken a shot at him from her horse.
The shot had grazed his shoulder.
The first look at her had pierced his heart. It still bled from time to time, although he’d learned to live with the pain. He smiled a little as he recalled their initial encounter.
“Are you all right?” she asked, throwing herself down on the ground to examine him. “Please tell me I haven’t killed you.”
He didn’t move, awash in a sea of conflicting sensations. The searing pain in his upper body, the indignity of being shot by a female. The intrusive heat of her hands as she matter-of-factly tore open his riding jacket to examine his torso. Her dark red hair brushing against his belly, inflaming his senses. How he could desire a woman who’d almost killed him defied reason. But damnation, she had stirred him. He narrowed his eyes and considered the situation.
“Well, say something,” she said in panic.
She was tall and lushly built, deep-bosomed and supple. She was imperious. She was the most compelling woman he had ever met, and he’d wanted to bed her on the spot. Right there between the rocks like a barbarian.
“All right,” he said between his teeth, suppressing all his barbaric instincts. “You’ve killed me. I am dead. Does that make you happy?”
“There’s no need to be rude.”
“Isn’t there? Forgive me if I find it difficult, lying flat on my back with a pistol wound, to dredge up my party manners.”
“I don’t know why you’re being so horrible. It was an accident. I was frightened. I really thought I might have killed you.”
He grunted. “Came close enough. You shot me. What in heaven’s name possessed you? You shot me.”
“Well, no wonder,” she said, sounding a little indignant herself now. “What were you doing jumping out at me from behind that cairn?”
“I thought you were someone I knew.”
“Well, I thought you were the rabid fox that had attacked the livestock last night.”
“Do I look like a rabid fox?” he demanded crossly.
He was disconcerted by the wicked gleam in her gray eyes, and drawn to it, too. He didn’t know which was worse, that she’d injured him or that he desired her in spite of it. Certainly it was not a normal response to being shot. He sat up abruptly as she pulled his cambric shirt off his shoulders to study the injury she had inflicted. “It doesn’t look as bad as I feared.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“I am sorry.”
He turned his head, her strong chin grazing his cheek. “It’s a nice shoulder,” she said very quietly, “as far as shoulders go.”
“Is it?” he asked, grinning reluctantly.
“Of course, I’m not an expert.”
He stared at her mouth—red, moist, inviting. He’d heard one of the young men at the party comment that Julia Hepworth was something of a hellion. But it had been voiced more as a compliment than a criticism. He’d wager that the man who said it had never been shot by her and then suffered the delicious agony of her practically crawling on top of him to tear off his shirt. Or perhaps he had. For all he knew she’d left a slew of victims in her wake.
“Do we have to tell anyone?” she asked, her eyes meeting his appealingly.
“That depends.” He decided he was going to kiss her. Any young woman who could shoot and half undress him the way she had deserved to be kissed. If not more. God, she was fetching, he thought, enjoying the warm weight of her belly against his side.
She let her hand slide down the front of his shirt, her gloved fingertips skimming his chest. Heat flooded his groin. “Depends on what?” she whispered, drawing her head back to give him a suspicious look that told him he wasn’t the first man to find her attractive. He assumed he was the first man she’d shot though.
“On how sorry you are.”
Her full lips lifted in a smile. “Everyone has warned me what a rogue you are, Heath Boscastle.”
“Pity they didn’t warn me about you,” he murmured.
“That I’m reckless and impulsive?”
“No. That you’re tempting and—”
A shadow dropped over this heated exchange like a shroud, dampening the air, dousing the invisible flames that leaped between them. The chance to kiss her red mouth was lost. All of a sudden Heath’s shoulder hurt like hell. He made a face. Julia jumped up, stepping on his hand. He might have sworn. Bloody careless female.
“I think you’re going to live,” she announced in an impersonal voice as he pulled his shirt back over his bare shoulders.
“What in God’s name happened?” demanded the shadow.
“I shot him,” she said, not looking half as sorry as she should, in Heath’s opinion.
“What?” The shadow sounded shocked. Heath realized that it was Russell, the last person on earth he wished to witness his humiliation. “You shot my best friend? Answer me right now, Boscastle, what did you do that Miss Hepworth had a reason to shoot you?”
Heath had ridden back to their host’s home alone, not in the mood for Russell’s snide remarks. He decided that he would find Julia during the party when she was by herself. He didn’t have to.
* * *
She found him alone in the library several hours later. The rest of the party guests had gone off on a scavenger hunt and would not return until early evening. Only the infirm and the children had been left behind.
He put down his book when he saw who had interrupted him. His anger had died down. His attraction to her hadn’t. “You haven’t come to shoot me again, have you?” he demanded, sounding sterner than he felt. His shoulder was actually fine, and he knew it had been an accident.
She pivoted in surprise, her eyes widening with recognition. Her cheeks were flushed a deep rose against her pale skin. Her hair cascaded rather untidily down her shoulders, and her riding habit was a little rumpled. She looked as if she were trying to hide from someone. “I don’t have a weapon.” She held her hands up in surrender. “Search me if you like.”
He grinned at her. He couldn’t even pretend to be angry, not when she disconcerted him like that. “I think I will search you.”
“Please yourself. Just don’t—”
There were footsteps outside the door, young voices whispering, “Did she go in the library?”
“No. She ran upstairs. I heard her.”
“She’s hiding in the dressing closet. Come on, troops. After her!”
Julia spun around and locked the door. By the time she turned back, Heath’s hands had encircled her waist, drawing her slowly toward him. This was an opportunity he wasn’t about to pass up. She owed him. He lowered his head, skimmed his mouth over the curve of her cheek. Her skin was as soft as cream. He wanted a taste of her.
Her lips opened, inviting, soft, and lush. “Don’t give me away,” she whispered, her soft breasts brushing his arm, “or I’ll have to spend the afternoon reading to the cousins.”
“Boscastle cousins?”
She was studying his face, resisting only slightly as he tugged her with him to the sofa. “Yes.”
“My sympathies then,” he murmured, drawing her down beside him. “You could read to me if you like.”
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered, hiding her face in his neck. “I really shouldn’t be alone with you like this.”
“I know.” The soft weight of her body, the scent of her hair, was driving him mad. “Let’s elope.”
“You scoundrel,” she said, biting her lip, her gray eyes a little dreamy and wistful. “As if you would.”
His heavy-lidded blue eyes drifted over her. “I’m wild for you.”
“You’re going away to war!” she said with a scandalized laugh.
“What if I die and never come back?” he asked, pulling her back toward him.
Her gray eyes danced with mischief, and a healthy dose of doubt. Even then she had her feet firmly planted on the ground. Sensible and sexual. He had never encountered such a combination. “What if?” she teased.
He slid his hand under her riding jacket, flirting with the underside of one firm breast. There was something about her he couldn’t resist. Something that balanced his serious nature. He wasn’t sure if he was seducing her or was being seduced. He couldn’t remember ever falling into intimacy so easily with a woman. He’d known from the moment he’d seen her that she was different. “Your skin feels so warm and soft.”
She caught her breath. �
�No one has ever touched me there.”
He nuzzled the side of her neck. She’d never believe him that this was not his usual behavior, or that of all his brothers, he was the most restrained. “No one has ever tempted me like this.”
“So you say.”
“Do you think I would lie?”
“I think you’re a dangerous rogue and—”
He kissed her ripe tempting mouth, pressing her back into the sofa. He would have killed anyone who’d interrupted them. He wanted her all to himself.
One thing had led to another. They had both been young, impulsive, and passionate. Even then he’d known how to arouse a woman, but there was nothing rote or planned about this encounter. He spent almost an hour kissing her, ravaging her mouth, learning little things that pleased her. They had talked between caresses. He had slowly led her, coaxed her, introduced her to the secrets of sensuality. He’d lowered her inhibitions without her even realizing it, and although she was sexually innocent, she was so sharp-witted that he couldn’t predict how she would react to him. He couldn’t predict his own responses. All he knew was that he’d never felt like this before.
He lost track of time. The rest of the world faded from his awareness, centered on this one woman. He remembered that they had rolled onto the floor, her riding jacket thrown over a card table, her breasts exposed above her unhooked bodice.
His own shirt hung open to the waist. He was practically panting with lust, already thinking of how to keep her away from his friends for the rest of the party. She had pressed her palms against him as he leaned into her, holding her captive between his thighs. He was aching for sex, hard and desperate for relief. He heard her moan softly as he rubbed his erection against her. He felt the heat of her body, her shiver of helpless excitement, the soft enticement of her skin. He shoved up her skirt, frantic for more of her. The future didn’t exist. He had to have her even though he knew that it was too soon.
His fingers gently parted the damp curls of her sex. She went still at the invasion, at the penetration of his finger. “What are you doing to me?” she whispered, her voice breathless, unsure.
“Does it hurt?”
She shook her head, her inner muscles tightening, her breath coming in broken gasps of pleasure. He delighted in touching her, kissing her mouth, her breasts, as he played with her. His fingers were soaked with her essence. Never before or since that day had he known such desperate excitement. She responded to everything he did, her body ripe for his touch.
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