He knew everything about her.
And he remembered perfectly well what they had done.
Furthermore, he hadn’t lost even a single white tooth.
Even worse, she couldn’t stop staring up at him, drinking in all the details of his appearance. One would think she had never seen a handsome man in her entire life. Of course there was a little more to it than that. They shared a secret.
“Julia,” he said in the deep, cultured voice that brought another rush of forgotten memories to the surface, teased her starved senses. “Still hiding, are you? I trust you aren’t armed tonight. Should I search you?”
She studied him in feigned puzzlement. “I’m sorry—do I know you? Have we been formally introduced?”
He took her by the hand, drawing her forward without a qualm. “Very funny, considering the fact that you almost shot me dead the first time I saw you.”
“You shouldn’t have been hiding behind that rock. I thought you were a fox.” Now that she found her voice, she seemed to have turned into a chatterbox. The warmth in his eyes made it too easy to talk to him. “Oh, Heath, have you forgiven me? Did I leave you with a scar?”
“Yes. And yes. Actually I have gotten several scars since we met, but yours is the only one associated with a pleasant memory.”
There was a pause. She was aware of how hard her heart was beating, of other guests glancing at them, that time had only intensified his personal magnetism. She’d been surprised when Russell told her that Heath had never married, but then he was young enough and could afford to wait, could take his pick from the entire female population of England. A man who looked like Heath Boscastle would hardly have to search for a companion.
She was staring at him again. And he was smiling, although not out of any sense of superiority or conceit that she could tell. A perfect gentleman, he didn’t launch into gloating reminiscences of their sinful interlude.
It was more emotionally charged than she’d imagined it would be, meeting him like this, and she had imagined it countless times. He was the same charming rogue she remembered. The war had changed so many of her male acquaintances, and Heath had been captured, had survived a great deal.
He cleared his throat.
She gave herself a stern mental shake and glanced away.
“Would you care for something to drink?” he asked, drawing her to the end of the corridor.
“A drink?” She wished she would not keep remembering how he’d looked half naked, how the hand that was guiding her in such a gentlemanly way had plundered the private recesses of her body. He was so poised. It must amuse him to remember what they had done.
“Yes,” he said in a light voice. “A beverage. You know, that liquid stuff one swallows from time to time.”
“A drink,” she repeated.
“Do you need me to draw you a picture, Julia?” He waved his free hand in front of her face. “Julia?”
His voice was warm, teasing, as seductive as she remembered, had tried to forget. He’d always had a wicked, wry sense of humor, and it took all of her wits to pretend she was not affected, that every word he said, every gesture, did not take her back to the past. The lure proved too strong. She adverted her gaze, afraid she would give herself away, afraid that he was too intelligent to deceive. How humiliating that she could still recall every word.
I had one glass of claret, Heath.
Yes, well, it’s all gone to your head.
No, it hasn’t.
It most certainly has, or you wouldn’t be kissing me like this.
Do you mind?
Of course I don’t mind, but I daresay you will tomorrow.
I won’t. I never do anything I regret. Well, until now . . .
He’d threaded his long fingers through her hair and pulled her back into the sofa, his sensuality overpowering, the heat of his chiseled lips on her throat drugging her senses. The other house guests had gone off on a hunt, and she and Heath had been locked together in the library for three hours, unable to open the door, or at least pretending that the lock was jammed. Three fateful hours. Her life had never been the same, the stolen pleasure of their interlude overshadowing her to this moment. The ache inside her became more persistent, bittersweet and unfulfilled. There was something about him that inspired confidence and penetrated her defenses. Yet he had kept his promise to her.
She forced her mind back to the present. He was no longer holding her hand, but she had felt the warmth of his strong fingers all the way down to her knees. A blush of pleasant awareness washed over her.
She met his curious, perceptive gaze and sighed inwardly. It was far too easy to lose herself in those eyes as she had once learned. Guests were milling around them, staring at them in recognition now. Clearly those in the know had heard that Julia was engaged to Sir Russell, and Heath was a Boscastle male—eligible if elusive, a conquest to be pursued by the marriage-minded at any price.
She started to laugh. “Yes. I’d like a drink—anything as long as it’s not claret.”
A flame kindled in the depths of his dark blue eyes. His mocking smile was irresistible. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard it goes to one’s head.”
Chapter 3
Heath walked beside her, deep in thought, trying to assess his position. He could not quite believe it. Perhaps this was the price he paid for being such a private man. For the most part he ignored Society, its whims and scandals, unless absolutely necessary. He’d accepted this invitation tonight to the Earl of Odham’s ball only because Russell insisted, and he hadn’t seen Russell in ages. He should have suspected an ulterior motive.
He’d been ready to be called back into service. London had begun to bore him silly. He was between mistresses, restless, seeking something he could not identify. Perhaps a distraction from his inner demons, his own thoughts. Nothing seemed to satisfy him lately. He didn’t want to be alone, and yet he grew impatient with his small circle of friends.
The last woman in the world he’d expected to see tonight was Julia Hepworth—or Lady Whitby, as she was now known. He stole a speculative look at her. That pale mint-green gown of hers wrapped her delicious curves like gossamer. Green wasn’t an appropriate color for mourning in London, was it, or had she adopted some foreign fashion? It was good to see her again. How long had her husband been dead? She hadn’t lost her wits or her earthy appeal over the years.
Or her ability to provoke him. Why in God’s name was she marrying Russell? What an unlikely match. The pair of them would drive each other mad. He decided that green wasn’t worn in mourning, or half mourning, for that matter. He wondered whether she’d loved her late husband. And how he was supposed to “take care of her” while Russell played the hero. How was he supposed to pretend that he hadn’t almost taken her virginity years back? No matter how detached either of them appeared, there was no point in pretending the past had never happened.
“Where did Russell go?”
The sound of her voice wrenched him back to his present dilemma. She had asked for Russell. The joker who had arranged this perplexing affair, the man for whom Heath would play reluctant placeholder. He frowned and noticed in surprise and some relief that they had almost reached the refreshment room. A reprieve from being alone with her might give him time to think of a solution.
He studied her covertly as she went through the door. She was Julia and yet quite different than the last time he’d seen her. More confident, all the discordant aspects of her character melded into a more intense, more interesting package. He could not read her thoughts, guess what she made of their situation. Of him.
She seemed sure of herself. Her eyes no longer gazed at him with that disconcerting innocence, but were knowing, with a steady stare that challenged. A handmaiden who had turned into Hera. He felt a shift in his perception of her, a disorientation. There was no other woman with whom to compare her. He could not think of a single one. His past relationships had been uncomplicated and open. What he and Julia had shared was shadowy and undefined,
a desire left to dangle like an unanswered question.
He knew her, and yet he didn’t. Well, he assumed, hoped, that he had changed for the better, too. They could hardly be the same two people who had gone at each other with thoughtless abandon in a library a lifetime ago. Years had passed. What had experience done to them? Had time fulfilled her expectations or erased them?
Her gaze lifted to his. She took a sip of lemonade, and he remembered suddenly the taste of her kisses, the ripe softness of her lips, the sensual hunger that she had stirred in him. She’d laughed the first time he kissed her. They had laughed themselves silly over nothing. The echo of that memory, that sweet blinding innocence that they had both lost, stabbed him with a sense of poignancy. He hadn’t laughed like that since then. Still, they could never go back to that time.
“You’re staring at my mouth,” she whispered, catching him off guard.
“Oh.” He removed a crisp white handkerchief from his vest pocket. “Lemonade. On your lips.”
She took the handkerchief, her expression doubtful, although she went along with him. “Where did Russell go?” she asked, glancing around them.
“He was called off on an urgent matter.”
She dabbed at her mouth. There wasn’t any lemonade there, and they both knew it. She raised her brow. “Again?”
“Apparently.” He took her elbow, to guide her away from the line of guests crowding the table. “Is he called away often?”
“Yes. And—”
“He’s asked me to watch—”
“Over me.” She made a face, her eyes darkening in disapproval. Apparently this whole thing hadn’t been her idea. “It’s ridiculous, Heath.”
“I don’t know. Auclair is a monster.”
She set her glass down on the sideboard. “I can’t believe it. Why would Auclair not have given up? Didn’t you and Russell suffer enough at Sahagun?”
“Auclair is hardly a man of reason,” he said quietly.
“Let someone else make a sacrifice for a change.”
“We’re still alive, Julia. Others have lost far more.”
She faced him squarely, reminding him without words that she had made her own sacrifices.
“How is your family, Heath?”
He paused, admiring the adept change of direction. “Well enough, thank you. Grayson has recently married.”
“I heard. Who would have thought it? The original scoundrel leg-shackled for life.”
“It happens to the best of us.” He laughed as he thought of his older brother’s reckless past. “And to the worst, apparently.”
“You’re next in line, aren’t you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
She looked up at him. “I always thought you’d be married with at least five children by now.”
She couldn’t have been further from the truth. He’d never even come close to marriage. Not that he had anything against it. Did she love Russell? Of course she did. Half the ladies in London swooned when Sir Russell Althorne made one of his dramatic appearances at a party. How long had she been engaged to him? And when had their romance started? They seemed so incompatible, Julia, the free spirit, and Russell, who wanted so badly to impress the world. Well, opposites were supposed to complement each other.
It was arrogance on his part, really, to judge her so easily, sheer masculine conceit. Why did he presume to know her on the basis of one unforgettable interlude in the past? Just because her memory had haunted him over the years did not mean that she felt the same way about him. She may have come to regard him as the rogue who almost ruined her. What had been a significant moment in his life might have been no more than a humiliating experience for her.
“You don’t have to do what he asks,” she said over her shoulder as she led him back into the hall to the ballroom.
“No,” he said mildly. “I could be a perfect cad and discard any sense of honor. Russell did risk his life to rescue me.”
“Honor,” she murmured offhandedly. “What is it anyway?”
“You don’t believe in honor, Julia?”
“I believe men die for it.”
She edged away from him, absorbed into a group of guests who greeted her with guarded smiles. Honor. He was incensed, at a loss as to how to respond, frozen to the spot. She seemed to hold the concept in disdain. Did it have anything to do with the fact that her husband had died a brutal death as an officer in India? The war had left more than one woman embittered, hurt, disillusioned.
Samuel Breckland, a family friend, and Heath’s own brother, Brandon, had also lost their young lives upholding the notion of honor.
He felt like giving her a shake. She had touched a raw nerve, and the result was a rather irrationable sense of outrage. Wouldn’t the world collapse without honor? Who was she to mock the one thing he valued above almost everything? Who was she to make him question what he had become? And, why, for God’s sake, was he allowing her one careless question to unsettle him? Grayson, his brother, had repeated the same sentiment a dozen times. But from Julia, the words assumed a deeper meaning.
She turned unexpectedly, looking annoyed, perhaps embarrassed to find him hovering over her. She was presumably as uncomfortable with this arrangement as he was. Attempting to blend in with the other guests, she whispered in his direction, “Do go away, Heath. You’re following me like a mother hen.”
A mother hen. Heath Boscastle. No one had ever referred to him in such terms. He almost laughed. God, if his brothers could see him now. If she only knew how he really felt. If only he knew.
“Heath,” a young woman behind him whispered. “Did she say Heath?”
“Heath Boscastle?”
“He’s here?”
“Where is he?”
“I haven’t seen him. He rarely attends these functions.”
“I heard he attended his brother’s wedding.”
“Were you invited? Do you think—has he got marriage on his mind?”
He heard his name repeated, murmured, discussed by a small group of aggressive young women who’d just noticed his presence at the party. He could thank Julia for that. He disliked being the focus of attention. It went against his secretive nature, his ability to blend into the shadows and watch the rest of the world. They probably could not manage a single intelligent thought among them.
He tactfully brushed aside all the female bodies that began clustering around him like warm, perfumed moths. He was in serious danger of being smothered by a flock of fluttering fan-waving debutantes.
He made a covert escape to a chorus of disappointed sighs. By the time he managed to extricate himself from the siege Julia had set upon him, he glanced up to see her silk-clad form glide through a door at the opposite end of the ballroom.
Reaching her would bring all his skills as a cavalry officer into play. But their conversation was not over. He would not be dismissed like a raw youth, no matter what had happened in the past. Or what the future would bring.
Chapter 4
Julia took several deep breaths and proceeded down the candlelit hallway, her green silk gown rustling in the silence. She walked in long, precise strides. On a good day she could outpace most men her age.
Heath Boscastle was another matter entirely.
He always had been. She should have known his instincts would only sharpen over time. Well, so had hers. She wasn’t a giddy nineteen-year-old virgin who drank a glass of claret and tumbled onto a library sofa with the most attractive man in the world and gave herself up to him with shameless abandon.
She pursed her lips in self-disdain. Heavens, no. She was a twenty-six-year-old widow who could calmly walk away from the most attractive man in the world because it was the right thing to do.
Wasn’t it?
She had warned Russell that to order Heath to protect her was a horrible idea, an insult, an invitation to trouble. That she did not want a protector, at least not one who knew her a little better than she could ever admit.
The problem was
that Russell, in his well-meaning male arrogance, had assured her that he alone knew what was in her best interests. He knew whom he could trust, could depend on, could manipulate with Machiavellian skill. Well, to be fair, he hadn’t said he could manipulate Heath, but the implication was resoundingly clear. He meant to leave her safe with the most competent man he knew, the one man he claimed to trust above all others.
And Julia could only sit on the sofa in silent misery while her celebrated fiancé lectured her in his paternal way until she’d finally managed to get a word in edgewise to protest.
“Not Heath Boscastle. Find another Hussar, a Horse Guard, a Bow Street runner, a . . . retired wrestler, or even a reformed convict.”
“Julia, darling.” He sat down beside her and gave her a hard, earnest look. “Trust me. I’m a man. I know what’s best.”
He was definitely a man. He might even have known what was best, but he did not know, and never would, what had happened between Julia and Heath years ago in Cornwall. On a sofa very much like the one they were sitting on, as a matter of fact.
And on the floor.
She stared down at the patterned Turkey carpet, transfixed by the memory of a half-naked Heath Boscastle on top of her, his clever hands, his sensual mouth, branding her with his unforgettable imprint. He’d had the body of a young god and the seductive powers to match. She felt a little breathless at this moment, thinking about him.
It had been the most earthshaking sexual experience she had ever known, even after five years of marriage. An extravagant invitation to pleasure, a stunning discovery, a raw awakening—
“And so you agree, it really is for the best. He’s a heartless killer, Julia, a—”
“Heath Boscastle?” she said in disbelief, blinking guiltily.
Russell subjected her to an irate stare, his single eye managing to convey a wealth of displeasure. “No. Not Boscastle. Do pay attention. I am referring to the man I intend to bring to justice. The French spy who has promised to kill me, Julia, Armand Auclair.”
“Oh, him,” she said in embarrassment. “But why? I mean, why not allow someone else to be a hero for a change?”
The Wedding Night of an English Rogue Page 3
