The Wedding Night of an English Rogue

by Jillian Hunter

  “You possess beauty, wit, and some wealth, Julia,” he replied calmly. “I’d say a secret admirer was a definite possibility.”

  Unbidden pleasure swept over her. She poured a bracing cup of tea from the silver teapot, surprised that her hand was not shaking. “I’d prefer my admirers to come to the door then, not lurk inside parked carriages.”

  “Except that you’re going to marry Russell, and he might not appreciate men coming to your door,” he reminded her. “You attended a ball last night. Did you notice anyone staring at you?”

  “Yes, you,” she replied with a frown. “Every time I turned around.”

  “That was different,” he said drily.

  His chin brushed her cheek. Julia was afraid she would drop her teacup.

  “People certainly stare at you,” she murmured.

  The sharp yapping of small dogs in the hall interrupted their conversation. Heath straightened dutifully from her chair, and Julia found herself suddenly able to breathe. “Ah,” he said. “Your aunt and her ferocious pack of Lilliputian hounds are here.”

  “And shall protect me.” She took a sip of tea. “You may go home now, Heath, and by that I do not mean to sound ungrateful. Hermia and I have plans for the day. Please get some rest.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “Where are we going?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked slowly. “Odham is escorting us to a garden party.”

  He turned from her chair as the door opened, and Hermia appeared in a peacock-blue satin gown and feathered turban. “The earl may escort your aunt, but I shall accompany you, Julia, unless you find my company undesirable,” he said in a deep voice that no woman could possibly resist.

  She hesitated, ignoring every warning that raced across her mind. It wouldn’t hurt, would it? Russell wanted her to make friends, to feel comfortable at social gatherings. She could use the practice. “The party might be a pleasant diversion,” she admitted reluctantly.

  His eyes glittered with devilish humor. “Perhaps I shall discover your secret admirer.”

  Julia gave a rueful laugh. “You shall discover that he does not exist.”

  Heath was ensconced in the drawing room, skimming a book on ancient Sanskrit, when the earl arrived to escort his beloved Hermia to the party. Heath lifted the curtain of the front window and studied the crowded street, as he had done throughout the night. Aside from the usual parade of cabs and carriages, vendors, and merchants making business calls, there was nothing in the noisy congestion to arouse suspicion. It was not difficult to move undetected in the bustle of London, to commit a crime and disappear into the underworld of alleys, warrens, and dens.

  Still, Heath was suspicious by nature. His patience and perception were part of the reason he had been chosen by his superiors in Portugal to join the elite corps of guides, or secret British Intelligence officers, who could serve as dispatchers in battle, or even as double agents should the need arise. Unfortunately, he had been captured early in his career as a cavalry officer and put to torture by a French soldier named Armand Auclair. The experience had left him with both physical and emotional scars, but had also strengthened his character. He had survived hell. There wasn’t much that frightened him now.

  To this day he enjoyed solving puzzles, mysteries, putting things to right. He was a passionate cryptographer. Solving codes gave him a sense of stability that he seemed to require in what he perceived as a disordered world. Human affairs, of course, posed the ultimate challenge. Unpredictable in nature, typically without rhyme or reason. He’d yet to crack the mystery of emotion to his satisfaction.

  Take the attack on Russell’s servants last night. It bore the marks of a personal element that intrigued Heath. Apparently Auclair was playing a game. He wanted to instill fear and prolong his revenge. Why? He’d made a career as a duelist in Paris. Napoleon was in exile. Why would Auclair bother to hunt down Russell?

  The door behind him opened.

  The Earl of Odham bound into the room, his round face as dark as a thundercloud, his thick white hair untidy. “Damned London traffic will be the death of me yet,” he announced. “Is that woman ready?”

  Heath turned from the window, his reverie broken. Odham was as spry and alert as any dandy. He dressed like one, too, in a bright gold jacket, white embroidered vest, and buckskin breeches with gleaming Hessian boots that seemed to swallow up his short frame.

  “If by ‘that woman’ you are referring to Lady Dalrymple, than I believe she is waiting in the garden with the dogs. If you are referring to Julia, then no. She is not ready.”

  Odham grunted, but appeared to calm down at the sound of Heath’s voice. “Hello, Boscastle. I suppose they’ve both told you what a villain I am.”

  “Just tell me one thing, Odham, are you blackmailing Lady Dalrymple?”

  Odham dropped like a stone onto the empty sofa. “I shan’t deny it. Yes, I am.”

  Heath shook his head in disbelief. “You actually admit it?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because it is unsavory, ungentlemanly, and illegal.”

  “Love ought to be illegal,” Odham said, lacing his hands over his potbelly.

  “Love?” Heath arched his brow. “Pray explain how love and blackmail go hand in hand. I must have missed that concept in my social education. It sounds a little primitive to me.”

  “If I didn’t love the wretched woman, I wouldn’t be blackmailing her into marriage, would I?”

  “I fail to see the logic.”

  “Who said anything about logic? Good God, I am not a monster, Boscastle, merely a man, one who is utterly and miserably in love with the cruelest and most desirable female in the whole of England. If not the world.”

  Heath settled back in his chair. This proved his theory: that human affairs followed no predictable course whatsoever. “We are discussing Lady Dalrymple?”

  “Who else?” Odham asked, thumping his head back on the sofa. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever lost your senses over a woman? No, not you. You have a reputation for restraint. In fact, now that I think about it, your affairs are never in the newspapers. You’re rather an anomaly in the Boscastle line, aren’t you?”

  “Just because my personal life is not public knowledge does not mean I do not have one.”

  “I did not mean to offend you. I wish I’d had your sense in my earlier years. I might have never lost Hermia if I’d been discreet. The woman is a goddess, and I worship at the altar of her charms.”

  Heath held back a grin. Hermia was twice the size of Odham, in height and in weight. “It’s my understanding that Lady Dalrymple does not wish to marry you.”

  “Of course she does. The woman is wild for me.”

  “She certainly hides it well,” Heath retorted.

  “She’s as stubborn as a goat.”

  “A goat or a goddess? Do make up your mind.”

  Odham rubbed his face in distress. “I shall do anything to win her. Anything. Do you understand?”

  Heath grimaced. “I’m afraid I do.”

  “Then it’s agreed—you shall take my cause?”

  Familiar female voices drifted from the hallway. Heath leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve agreed to nothing of the sort. I do not think I should become involved in this business at all.”

  “Men have to stick together.”

  Heath shook his head. “Not when blackmailing older women into marriage they don’t. I should feel ridiculous, and cruel.”

  Odham leaped up from the sofa. “I am lost without her—I shall pursue her with my dying breath.”

  “Pull yourself together, Odham. The ladies are right outside the door. If you wish to win Hermia, I suggest you find a more suitable way to do so.”

  Chapter 8

  The breakfast party did not begin until two o’clock that afternoon, in a small village on the outskirts of town. Heath had hoped for a quiet affair, the easier to keep an eye on Julia and perhaps to agree on a strategy for their arran
gement. But the party turned out to be a crush, with at least three hundred guests in attendance. The master of ceremonies lost his voice before he ended his list of announcements.

  Julia, Hermia, and Odham watched a match of cricket and played bowls on the lawn. Heath made an effort to participate, but he was more interested in observing Julia, and not in the line of duty either. She looked exceptionally striking in a pale yellow gown that set off her lustrous red hair and creamy sun-gilded skin. As they finished their final game, their hostess, Lady Beacom, who happened to be Odham’s niece, brought out her five pet monkeys, who cleverly escaped their wicker cages to play gleeful havoc on the long tables. It was an unplanned entertainment, and the highlight of the party.

  Several ladies shrieked in mock terror. Heath and Julia rescued three of the monkeys between them, but one female became particularly attached to Heath, refusing to release him when her mistress held out her plump white arms.

  “You discriminating creature,” Lady Beacom said in delight. “You would choose the most attractive man in London.”

  Julia laughed as the monkey buried its face inside his jacket. “I think you’re the one with the secret admirer.”

  He flashed her a grin and gently attempted to coax out the animal. “This is rather embarrassing.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s the first time you’ve had trouble detaching yourself from a female.”

  “They generally smell a great deal better,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “And I don’t recall one with this much hair on her body.”

  She reached inside his jacket to help him. “Come on, you naughty girl, you’re ruining his lordship’s shirt.”

  All of a sudden the monkey tired of the game and crawled back onto Heath’s shoulder to launch herself into a crowd of unsuspecting gentlemen. Guffaws of startled laughter filled the air. Heath straightened his dove-gray morning coat while Julia watched in amusement.

  “Fickle female,” she said. “She’s already found another man to replace you.”

  “Was it something I said?”

  “I don’t think so. Her new friend appears to have a bag of sugared almonds in his pocket.”

  “If only the women I knew were so easily pleased.”

  “You mean your charm isn’t enough?”

  “Hardly.”

  They began to walk toward the garden, winding their way past the guests dancing on the lawn. The day was warm, the music a pleasant accompaniment to conversation.

  “Who are they anyway?” Julia asked after a slight pause, darting a curious look up at him.

  He glanced behind them, his gaze searching the grounds before returning to her face. “Who . . .”

  “Your women.” She bumped against him as the path became uneven. “Woman. For heaven’s sake, you know what I am trying to ask.”

  His mouth quirked into a wry grin. “Yes, I know.” But it was fun to make her explain anyway.

  “Then you aren’t going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” he asked, taking her arm to steady her before she took another misstep.

  “The name of the lady who has captured your elusive heart.”

  He stopped in his tracks and stared at her. Her golden-cream skin shimmered in the sunlight. The band had begun to play a waltz in the background. He studied her in astonishment. Trust Julia to cut straight to the bone. But then hadn’t unexpected intimacy characterized their connection from the start? How easily they were falling back into their former association. He didn’t know how to thwart it.

  “Who said I was in love?”

  “Aren’t you in love?” she asked.

  “Am I?”

  She sighed in surrender. “Why don’t you fetch me a glass of champagne? It’s obvious I’m not going to get a straight answer from you.”

  “Good idea,” he said, enjoying the chance to make her wonder. He wondered himself why he’d never fallen in love. “If I’m gone too long, I’ve probably run off with the monkey.”

  He found a footman attending the large group of guests standing in line at the bottom of the breakfast tables. He snagged a glass from the tray in the hope of escaping before anyone cornered him. Unfortunately, he turned to discover Lady Harrington lying in wait for him behind a boxwood hedge.

  He didn’t know what to say. So nice to see you with your clothes on? How are you enjoying the party? I’ll bet it doesn’t compare with your adulterous evening with Althorne? She had gall, to stop him in public after what he’d seen of her. Or what he hadn’t seen.

  “Good afternoon, Lucy,” he said with a breezy smile, holding the champagne flute aloft. “I’d love to stay and chat with you, but I’m on a mission. By the way, it was charming to see you last night. All of you.”

  She stepped in front of him, her voice deep and urgent. “Don’t you dare try to escape, Boscastle.”

  “Lucy,” he said, “in all fairness I do not wish to become involved in your private affairs. One of Russell’s women appears to be all I can handle at the moment.” And that was the truth. He hadn’t decided if Julia had him coming or going. Or which way he even preferred.

  “Did you tell her?” she demanded, sounding more afraid than threatening.

  His eyes narrowed in speculation. They stood in full view of the other guests, and although he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, he realized Julia was watching. The last thing he wanted was to arouse her suspicions or hurt her, or even Lucy’s old sod of a husband. God forbid the man might think that Heath was having an affair with his faithless wife. Heath rather liked the old sod, and he did not conduct affairs with married women on principle.

  “Never fear,” he said in a bored voice. “Your sordid little secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a soul you were giving Russell a proper send-off last night.”

  She released her breath. “It wasn’t the first time, you know.”

  He glanced past her, his attraction diverted. He had just noticed a dark-haired, rather intense young man who seemed vaguely familiar standing behind Julia. She was edging away from him as if she were unconsciously uncomfortable. He kept creeping a little closer, working his way through a group of people toward her.

  “Did you hear what I said, Boscastle?” Lucy asked, her voice shrill.

  He looked around in irritation. “Yes. You said it wasn’t the first—what are you trying to tell me?” he said impatiently. “I am not a priest, you know, and this is a garden party, not a confessional.”

  “Russell and I have been seeing each other off and on for years. I told him it would stop once he’s married. I think . . . well, I’ve heard he’s got a proper mistress.”

  “A proper mistress? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

  “I’m going to break off with him,” she said with a sniff of emotion.

  “Well, good for you,” Heath said, raising the champagne flute to toast her.

  He wondered how all of a sudden he had become involved in this complication of human misconduct. He avoided emotional entanglements as a rule. In some ways he felt safer facing a bayonet on a battlefield or searching the Portuguese countryside for spies. He was a private person, and he preferred keeping his life to himself. Other people’s messy affairs really did not interest him.

  Julia interested him, though, far more than he cared to admit. He felt insulted on her behalf by Russell’s secret dalliance with this woman. Why would any man tryst with a vapid twit like Lucy with a wife like Julia in his future?

  “How do you know he’s got a proper mistress anyway?” he asked, suddenly curious.

  “I know what pleases him,” she said a little sourly. “Russell wants a wife for one reason, and a mistress for another.”

  Which didn’t explain where she fit into his plans. He gave her a dark smile. “Julia’s been married, too. I suspect she might know a few things herself about pleasing a man.”

  Lady Harrington’s smile faded. Heath nodded cordially and headed back toward Julia, bearing the champagne flute like a trophy. Obviously h
is parting remark had left Lucy with something to think about. Unfortunately, it set his thoughts running down a rather dangerous pathway, too. He had no idea what had come over him, except that he’d felt a compulsion to defend her. He had just made her sound like some sort of legendary concubine. Was that how he secretly thought of her?

  “Why were you talking to that woman?” she asked with an uneasy smile when he reached her side.

  His guard went up. He had to be careful what he revealed. Women had sharp instincts about these things. “I know her husband.”

  “Russell knows him, too. I always thought Lucy had a wandering eye, if you know what I mean.”

  He handed her the champagne flute. She took a deep sip. He hoped to God she didn’t ask him any more questions. He wouldn’t get away with lying, and he didn’t particularly want to deceive her, which didn’t mean he had to tell her everything. “How well do they know each other?” he asked casually, following her farther down the secluded walkway to a stone bench that sat hidden in a leafy bower.

  She sank down on the bench and examined her shoes. They were fashioned of Indian gold brocade and curled up at the toes, like the slippers a genie in a fairy tale would wear. They looked rather peculiar, but they suited Julia’s adventurous spirit and sense of fun, and they matched her butter-yellow muslin party gown.

  “I think Lucy was attracted to Russell before she was married,” she said in a thoughtful voice. “I’m not certain if he noticed.”

  He raised his brow and tried to ignore the languid stretch of her spine as she leaned down to pluck a leaf from her shoe. He couldn’t think of another woman who moved with such grace and determination, and it should not have aroused him, but it did. Made him imagine challenging her to a tussle in bed. A legendary concubine?

  “I should think,” he said, although he didn’t really believe it, “that all that sort of nonsense will be over once you two are married.”

  “Yes.” She sighed, and suddenly did not seem confident at all. She seemed like a vulnerable, charmingly headstrong woman who made his heart race for all the wrong reasons. “I’m not sure, actually. I’m not sure that Russell’s acclaim will make for an easy life.”