The Wedding Night of an English Rogue

by Jillian Hunter

  He had been the lone wolf, preferring to remain unattached unless he could have the woman he wanted. Julia’s marriage had been an obstacle, and the timing had been off. War had come between them, as had the impetuous mistake they’d made in their youth. Then Russell had barred the way, erecting the thorns of friendship and duty. Heath could only blame himself for missing his chance with her. But he was not about to make the same mistake again. He wouldn’t learn to live with losing her again.

  Russell had broken the most basic of rules. He had betrayed both his friend and his fiancée. He’d lied too easily to Heath as well as to Julia, and apparently would continue to do so. He would be unfaithful to his wife as he climbed the ladder to the top of the castle and made the betrayed princess his queen. Such behavior might be common in Society, but not in the Boscastle breed. Seductions were a family trait. Betrayals, no.

  “The hero of London.” Heath tossed the unopened letter on his desk in disdain. “The king of the castle—no, cad of the castle is more like it.”

  There was a faint clumping of footsteps in the hall, a movement at the door. A behemoth shadow fell upon the thick Oriental carpet, obscuring its masses of bloodred peonies. “Are you in for the evening, my lord?” a deep voice like a funeral bell intoned.

  Heath turned toward the imposing personage who blocked the entire doorway. Hamm had been a trooper in his brigade, a capable swordsman and loyal friend who had charged in the cavalry alongside him. Together they had cut down their fair share of French dragoons in ice and mist. Hamm presented a ferocious enough appearance that he still frightened the housemaids, whom he teased and protected in his lumbering way.

  “Actually, Hamm, I am going to the theater.”

  The gigantic footman stepped into the room, giving his master a covert once-over. His gaze lingered on the egg that had dried in a crusty mess on Heath’s sleeve. “You will require a fresh change of clothes, my lord?”

  “Yes, and a shave. I don’t suppose Sir Russell has sent word from Dover?”

  “No, my lord. The War Office has promised to alert you should the need arise.”

  Heath met the middle-aged Yorkshireman’s gaze. It was Hamm, along with Russell, who had rescued Heath from the tiny Portuguese convent where he had hidden after his escape, after suffering tortures he’d mercifully forgotten. His body bore the scars, but his mind had found a welcome oblivion. Hamm had lost both his brothers and his father in the war. He never spoke of them, but Heath knew he grieved in his quiet way.

  “It’s too soon yet,” Heath said. “I expect he has more important things to accomplish than sending letters home.”

  Hamm nodded, his gaze oddly guarded. “Sir Russell can fend for himself, my lord,” he said after a pause. “He always has.”

  Chapter 13

  Hermia entered Julia’s bedroom unannounced, her long-sleeved dark-gold crepe dress reflecting the soft glints of candlelight. “Good heavens, Julia, put down that sketch pad. You’re not dressed, and we shall be leaving in a few minutes.”

  “Hmm?” Julia did not look up. Her frown of displeasure deepened as she regarded the sketch propped against her upraised knees.

  “It’s criminal,” Hermia said without preamble, plunking her sizable posterior onto the bed.

  Julia sighed. “That I’m not properly dressed or that you barged in without knocking?”

  Hermia attempted to peer over the hillock of Julia’s knees. “Neither. I was referring to Odham’s shameless pursuit of a woman my age.”

  Julia covered her sketch with her hands. “I think it’s rather sweet.”

  “Sweet. The old scoundrel. What is it you are drawing in such secrecy, Julia? Do show me. Is it a naked man?”

  “A naked man? Oh, really.”

  “A naked Heath Boscastle?”

  “Honestly, Hermia. All I can say is thank goodness he has gone home for an hour. I can finally catch my breath.”

  Hermia compressed her lips as Julia carefully leaned forward to bury the sketchbook in the brass-hinged chest at the foot of the bed. “I could put several meanings on that statement.”

  Julia decided she would have to find a new hiding place for her sketch later tonight. She didn’t trust Hermia’s sneaky nature for a second. Or her curiosity.

  She slid off the bed and carefully smoothed out the folds of her shimmering eggshell-white silk evening gown. “Have you seen my sapphire bracelet?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, my dear. I feel safer with Heath here, Julia. Protected.”

  “Well, I don’t.” She tugged a fringed paisley shawl out from beneath Hermia’s posterior. “I feel rather endangered, if you must know.”

  “Endangered?” Hermia’s brows lifted in disbelief. “By Boscastle? He’d kill anyone who came near you. Unless you are referring to a different kind of danger.”

  “Damnation,” Julia muttered, “where is that bracelet?”

  “On the table in front of you. How does Heath endanger you, Julia?”

  Julia fastened the clasp of her bracelet. Hesitating, she picked up a pair of elbow-length kidskin gloves from the bed. “It is not a comfortable situation, not for either of us.”

  Hermia’s light green eyes glittered with understanding. “I’d say he looks more than comfortable with you.”

  Julia stared at her other glove as if she couldn’t remember how to put it on. “I’m afraid Russell blackmailed Heath into guarding me.”

  “Blackmailed? Do you mean that Heath has a criminal past to be held over his head?”

  “I mean nothing of the sort. It’s just that Heath is too honorable for his own good.” And Russell did not realize what he had done, putting the two of them back together.

  “How can a man be too honorable?”

  Julia struggled to fit her fingers into the glove. “I wish you’d convince him he doesn’t need to stay here any longer.”

  “I shall do nothing of the sort,” Hermia retorted. “I enjoy him, Julia, and so do you. I have come to view him as our personal Apollo. A bit on the devilish side, perhaps, but what woman could complain?”

  Hermia rose and went to the door to wait.

  Julia shook her head in chagrin. “Our personal Apollo.”

  “You do not find him unbearably handsome?”

  She allowed her aunt to exit into the hall before her. “That is hardly the question.” It was, however, a great part of her dilemma. Handsome, sexually irresistible, gentle at all the right times. It distressed Julia to discover that, at her age, after all her experience, she could be tempted.

  Hermia paused at the top of the staircase, her breasts quivering below her Baroque pearl necklace. “A god in the hand is worth two on Olympus. I shall be quite crushed if you dismiss him as our protector.”

  Julia had just come down the stairs and stepped into the hall when she noticed a dark, arresting man standing alone in the dim, tapestried recess. He swiveled on his heel at her approach. Her gloved hand clutched the smooth mahogany handrail, and she paused, meeting his gaze in silence.

  A shock of pleased surprise ran through her, followed almost immediately by a sting of disappointment. At first glance he could have been easily mistaken for Heath. He had been blessed with the same thick black hair and devilish elegance, that air of breathtaking virility that commanded attention. Strong shoulders, the deceptively lean frame that wore evening clothes so well.

  And his eyes. Those deep Boscastle blue eyes, that assessed and consumed a woman with a polite hunger that left her breathless. She felt herself scrutinized by an expert stare that was flattering and not at all insulting.

  “Hello, Julia,” Drake said, striking her as warm, manly, and altogether disconcerting, in the best of ways. “I’m Heath’s brother, Drake. Do you remember me?”

  “Of course, I do.” Heavens, one wouldn’t forget him. “How good to see you after all this time. You’re looking, well . . .” She could hardly say he looked almost as indecently attractive as his brother. “Well. Yes, very well.”
/>   His gaze took another appreciative journey over her silk-draped form. “So are you. Very, very well.”

  She laughed. There was a wealth of playful sensuality in his eyes that must drive women wild. He resembled his older brother, although his face seemed a trifle harder, the angles broader, the appeal more raw than refined. Drake definitely fell into the category of dangerous but oh-so-desirable rogues. She could hardly imagine growing up in that household of untamed males. One Boscastle man was more than enough to keep her on her toes.

  “Are you my gaolkeeper for the night?” she asked.

  “That obvious, is it?” He smiled into her eyes. “Ah, and I was hoping to pass myself off as your companion.”

  She released a sigh. Her instincts told her she could trust him. “Your brother is breathing down my neck like a dragon. I swear the man never lets down his guard. He has eyes in the back of his head, and he can see through doors.”

  Drake gave a deep appreciative laugh. “That would be Heath. The Sphinx, we call him. There’s no one in the whole of England quite like the clever fiend.”

  “Yes,” she said, glancing away guiltily. “I knew that.”

  He grinned at her as if they’d become instant allies. They had his enigmatic sibling in common. “You could always shoot him again if he really becomes unbearable.”

  “I shall never live that down.”

  He gave her a conspiratorial smile and took her arm, his strong hand curling over hers. “And why would you want to?” he asked with open approval. “I’d be proud of myself, were I you. We have all wanted to shoot him at one time or another.”

  Chapter 14

  Heath stood unseen at the back of the private theater box, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. The ripe odor of spilled ale, half-eaten oranges, and candle wax from the pit below thickened the air. Countless footmen hovered at every turn, and he’d had a struggle reaching the upper boxes. He seemed to have timed his arrival well; the green baize curtain would close at any moment.

  The performance had just concluded, the new Irish actress Miss O’Neill had brought down the house, and the audience had burst into wild applause.

  In the private boxes around him, however, various other, more interesting dramas were still being played out, low-voiced introductions, flirtations over fans, whispered invitations to seduction.

  He frowned as he scanned the figures still seated before him, none as yet aware of his presence. The Earl of Odham appeared deep in discussion with Hermia. The top of Julia’s head, that lushly coiled auburn hair, shone in the candlelight, but the rest of her curvaceous form was blocked by a man leaning a little too intimately across her seat.

  Who, he wondered, straightening, was this nuisance?

  Not his brother Drake, who was sitting with a pair of binoculars trained on an opposite box. On some comely female, Heath would guess. At least Drake had not left her side. He moved closer, unable to identify the face of Julia’s admirer. The man turned his head. Heath’s eyes darkened in recognition.

  Julia’s companion was the same intense young man who had come to her rescue earlier in the day during the minor riot. Baron Brentford. The same man who had disgraced Chloe in public.

  Coincidence or not?

  Heath did not anger easily. Nor did he typically jump to conclusions. It was not remarkable to meet a member of the ton at the opera. In the brief rush of their encounter at the lecture hall, Julia had conceivably not mentioned that she was engaged to Russell.

  Perhaps she had mentioned that she would be at the theater tonight.

  Heath tensed at the sudden movement from the box. His rushed inquiries into Brentford’s past on his way here had yielded no helpful information. Brentford was a self-indulgent buck, a gambler, a ne’er-do-well who was fast squandering his inheritance. His family line was authentic if not impressive.

  Julia’s ivory lace fan had risen in the air and come down on Brentford’s wrist. Coincidental meeting or not, a fan brought down upon a man’s hand held a universal meaning. Either Brentford’s attention had strayed where not invited, or Julia was flirting with him. Either way, Heath intended to put a stop to it.

  “Well, good evening everyone,” he said with forced friendliness, sweeping Brentford a hostile look before his gaze pierced Julia.

  She glanced up, her eyes widening in surprise. And welcome. She did not bother to hide her pleasure at his arrival. A sense of satisfaction softened the edges of his anger. The hunger he felt for her temporarily swept all other thoughts from his mind. He drew a breath. This would not do. He could not afford to lose sight of his purpose just because she looked at him in a certain way.

  He glanced at Drake. “Kindly escort everyone to the carriage. Julia’s friend and I are going to have a few words alone.”

  Odham, grasping the situation, nodded in understanding and bent to assist Hermia from her seat. Drake extended his hand to Julia. She stared up at Heath in resigned appeal. “Words only,” she said in an undertone. “He is quite harmless.”

  “Is he?” Heath said, his smile tight.

  Brentford straightened as if he had just received a death sentence; his soulful brown eyes followed Julia from the box. “Will I see you again?” he called after her, clearly not realizing he had overstepped his bounds. “Will I—”

  Heath cleared his throat. “I appreciate your gallantry at the lecture hall earlier, Brentford, but I shall take over from here. You see, the lady is engaged.”

  “Well, yes, but I meant I might see her at another time.”

  “Engaged to be married,” Heath said between his teeth.

  Brentford’s horrified gaze returned to Heath. “Married? To you?”

  “To my friend.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Brentford said, closing his eyes in such relief that Heath almost felt sorry for him.

  “You’re pathetic, Brentford. I really should have thrashed you to kingdom come for kissing my sister in the park that day. In fact, if I didn’t suspect Chloe was as much to blame for the incident, you would not be standing here tonight.”

  Brentford held up his hands in self-defense. “I would have married your sister had Sedgecroft allowed me anywhere near the house to ask. I dared not even show my face at his door.”

  Heath gave him a cold, unforgiving look. He disliked Brentford, but there was some truth to what he said. Still, the baron was the sort of moonstruck fool who fell in love with every pretty lady he met. He needed to be taken down a peg or two. And he needed to stay away from Julia. Heath intended to make that point perfectly clear.

  “You’re too late to propose anyway,” he said. “Chloe is happily married to a man who would murder anyone who looked at her twice.”

  Brentford nodded in defeat. “Dominic Breckland. Yes, I know. Lucky devil.”

  “Dangerous devil. As is Julia’s betrothed, Sir Russell Althorne. I assume you know of him?”

  The baron flinched for all the world like a frightened schoolboy. “Of course I do. You’re all dangerous, aren’t you?”

  Heath glanced around, assessing his surroundings. Drake and Julia had probably not battled their way through the crush in the lobby yet. He was suddenly impatient to be with her alone. His earlier conversation with Grayson had helped crystallize what he felt for her. Observing her with Brentford had brought all his deeper instincts into play. He meant to make a move.

  Having confronted the dark truth of his desire, there was no turning back. If he did not act to win her, she would marry Russell, and he would lose her forever. For years he had denied what she meant to him. He would not deny his need for her now. Nor would he be denied. Nothing mattered now but keeping her safe. And keeping her for himself.

  “I think,” the baron said, casting a doleful look around the empty box, “that when I take my private fencing lesson in the morning, I shall ask my instructor to strike me straight through the heart.”

  Heath shook his head. He’d had enough of Brentford’s self-pitying disposition. “If you do not control your amorou
s impulses with Lady Whitby, you will not need to seek death. It will be waiting on your doorstep, I promise you.”

  He did not know why he had been so lenient with Brentford. The bloody fool deserved a good scare once and for all. Brentford had no idea how fortunate he was to have escaped the wrath of the Boscastle clan not once, but twice. Heath did not consider himself to be hotheaded. If he had to confront the baron, it would be on a field at dawn and not in a public place. But for now seduction beckoned more than battle.

  He fought his way through the swarm of attendees crowding the candlelit lobby, politely brushing off the friends who called to him, the ladies who looked at him in hopeful recognition. He had no time for them. No interest in their invitations, the talk of politics or parties.

  One single goal burned in his mind, one desire, a single destination.

  He caught sight of her near the door, Drake guarding her on one side, Odham and Hermia standing sentinel on the other. Julia glanced up unexpectedly and grinned in recognition. Her semibare shoulders gleamed in the candlelight. She looked so beautiful tonight he could not stop staring at her.

  A wave of fire consumed him. A white-hot awareness of her that electrified, galvanized him into action. She beckoned him over to her, her gray eyes warm and unguarded, a woman who had no reason to play games. A woman he wanted so badly he could feel the heat of it igniting in his bones. The more he saw of her, the more he desired her. Or perhaps he was of an age when he no longer cared to wait for what he wanted. He felt his blood stir in anticipation, his senses thrum with arousal. He savored the feeling, allowed it to spread.

  He smiled back at her, took an instinctive step around a cluster of people. Then stopped, his senses frozen by a primordial chill of apprehension, a warning, a very different awareness from his incendiary attraction to Julia.