The Wedding Night of an English Rogue

by Jillian Hunter

  She brought him to the edge, testing the limits of his restraint. He allowed her to prolong his pleasure until the moment came when he knew that he had to return the favor or lose control. He stretched forward and rolled her beneath him in one fluid move, holding her wrists above her head with one hand.

  She lay in breathless anticipation as he kissed a path down her breasts to her belly. Her legs parted at his urging. She moaned when he buried his face between her thighs to taste her. He felt her shift restlessly, and he wondered if she had ever known this delight before.

  “Relax, Julia.”

  “But I haven’t—”

  He licked her slowly with his tongue, lapped the folds of her crevice in long, velvety strokes. She fell silent, her thigh muscles quivering, her lower body twisting. He threw his left arm over her belly to hold her still. She arched, whimpering low in her throat. She might have been married once. She might have been engaged to another man. But before the night ended, she would belong to him alone. Her body would remember no other master.

  She gasped for breath. “That feels so wicked.”

  “God, it’s heaven. Do you want me to stop?”

  “I’ll die if you do.”

  He penetrated her deeply with his tongue, the scent of her making him wild. He drew her nub between his teeth and took teasing nibbles of her until her entire body shook and she turned her face breathlessly into the pillow. He tormented her. He drew out every sensation, awakened her every hidden sense until she writhed beneath him. His heart pounded, but he refused to release her, bringing her to a climax with his mouth.

  He did not give her time to recover before he splayed her thighs apart. Her eyes were closed, her body steamy wet, aroused, and ready as he sank inside her sheath. She quivered in pleasure at the invasion. She wrapped her legs around his hips and squeezed him; her sensuality challenged his control, inflamed his senses.

  “Heath.” She was begging, whether to stop or love her harder, he did not know. He was beyond stopping. He wanted only the release she could give him. He lifted her legs over his shoulders and rotated his hips with sensual abandon. Harder. Faster. Hotter. Deeper and deeper into the damp heat of her until her muscles contracted around his cock, his mind spiraled and pure feeling took over.

  He arched his back and felt his body flood with pleasure, soul-deep shudders of satisfaction. When the last spasm subsided, he could only stare down at her in wonder, touch her cheek.

  Her eyes met his. “My God.”

  She sighed.

  He eased down beside her and took her in his arms. “I don’t think I’ll ever have my fill of you.”

  “I can feel your heart pounding, Heath,” she whispered.

  “That’s what you do to me.” His arms tightened protectively around her. “Were you this passionate with your husband?”

  She sighed again. “No. Never.”

  “And with Russell?” he asked; the question had been burning at the back of his mind. He would erase all her memories of every man she’d ever met if given the chance.

  “No. Russell and I were definitely not this passionate.”

  “Don’t tell me he never tried,” Heath said, unable to believe that any man could resist her natural sensuality.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Bastard,” he said darkly.

  She laughed at that, angling her head back to study his profile. He did not look at her. He was afraid he would not be able to hide how he resented Russell, how wildly possessive and protective she made him feel. His pleasure at their physical union. He’d had long enough to learn to appreciate her, to realize what she meant to him.

  “Heath?” she prompted gently.

  He glanced down at her, his emotions softening. There was a note of anxiety in her voice. He wished he had not ruined the moment by letting his jealousy get the better of him.

  “What is it?” he asked, meeting her troubled gaze.

  “I know how the male mind works, Heath.”

  “You certainly know your way around the male body.”

  She smiled. “Mrs. Watson made it sound very academic. I daresay she will open a school one day and make a grand success.”

  He grinned. “Just don’t volunteer to act as a school-mistress.”

  Her eyes lifted teasingly to his. “I suppose that every man wishes to be a woman’s first lover,” she said softly. “I wish it had been you.”

  “Dear Julia.” He bent his head to kiss her soft, tempting mouth. “You are so very wrong.”

  She nestled into his embrace, draping her leg over his muscular calf to draw him closer. “Am I?”

  “Yes.” He melded his hardening body to her appealing curves. “Every man wishes to be a woman’s last. Which, in your case, I shall be.”

  He stirred an hour later, in the silence right before daylight broke. With a smile he drew the coverlet over her bare shoulders and stoked the fire so that in the morning she would awaken to warmth. For a blissful interval he did not move. He felt a contentment he had never known. To lie in bed beside Julia, listening to her breathe.

  Here in the country, in his brother’s house, the threat of Auclair, of explaining the situation to Russell, seemed distant and dangerously easy to push out of his mind. Julia, on the other hand, was impossible to ignore. Talk about making up for lost time. She would be aching all over after what he’d done to her during the night.

  He would have loved to linger in her bed and keep her warm himself. But even a Boscastle rogue had to maintain a minimum of propriety in a social setting. It wouldn’t do to have Aunt Hermia discover her niece being ravished while she was supposed to be under his protection.

  He let himself into his own room, washed, shaved, and dressed in fresh attire. As he heard the servants moving about the house, he sat down at his desk and began to draft a letter to London. He had not forgotten about Julia’s missing sketch. Best to find the blasted thing before it could cause him trouble.

  Julia heard him stir and quietly slip from her bed. His lovemaking had left her too deliciously exhausted to call after him. She felt safe in this house, in his arms, and, if it had been within her power, she would have held the rest of the world at bay forever. She could pretend to be his princess in the tower indefinitely.

  But she had an unpleasant feeling that Russell would not take her rejection gracefully, even if he’d been disloyal to her. Had she said that she wanted Heath to fight for her? Well, she had not meant so in a literal sense. Neither he nor Russell needed to fight over her to prove their bravery or manhood. How would she handle Russell? How would Heath? He had not told her. He was a man who thought carefully and was not prone to rash actions.

  For now she could only wait and hope to break off with Russell with as much grace as he would allow. She and Heath, together, were certainly strong enough to withstand whatever came their way. Such, she supposed, was the benefit of experience. At least she had the wholehearted approval of her aunt; fortunately, Heath’s family appeared to have accepted her with their famous warmth. The backing of the people she loved would see her through. Was loyalty in the face of life’s trials what gave the Boscastles their resilience? It was a quality she admired, one she hoped that whatever children Heath gave her would inherit.

  Chapter 24

  The letter from his brother, Heath, reached Lord Drake Boscastle at a most inopportune time. He was just settling in Audrey’s suite for an afternoon of artful seduction. He had been invited on the pretext of a poetry reading. He doubted he would leave the premises with literature on his mind.

  The young actress in his arms probably could not recite “Jack and Jill” at the moment. He had agreed, at Audrey’s persuasion, to let her budding new student practice her professional skills on him.

  “I think,” he murmured against her warm red mouth, “that you have a definite calling for this.”

  She twined her arms around his neck and began to loosen his cravat, cooing, “Do you really think so?”

  “Well, I
suppose we ought to—”

  He glanced up in annoyance as the door behind her opened, and Audrey ushered in a young footman. Drake was of a mind to brain the fellow for interrupting until he recognized the family livery. He gently deposited the woman draped across him onto the sofa.

  “Sorry, Boscastle,” Audrey said with a sly grin that suggested she was anything but. “He insisted it was important.” And obviously she intended to find out why.

  The footman handed the letter to Drake, all the while examining the flustered actress on the sofa, who was covertly trying to readjust her gown and hair at the same time. Drake tore open the seal and scanned the message, his face darkening.

  I need to see you on a mission of utmost urgency. The family name is at stake.

  Heath

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, slipping the paper into his vest pocket. “He certainly knows how to pick his times.”

  Audrey studied him in concern. She had always harbored a fondness for his family. “Trouble, Drake?” she asked, arching her brow.

  “What would a Boscastle be without it?” he replied with a rueful smile.

  She followed him to the door, her eyes regretful. The Boscastle footman had already fetched Drake’s hat, gloves, and black cloak. “I suppose I can assume from Grayson’s recent marriage and Heath’s interest in Julia that you and your younger brother are the only Boscastles available to us for debauchery?” she called after his lean, retreating figure.

  He pivoted, blowing her a kiss from the door. “At least in the immediate family.”

  Heath and Drake met in the oval drawing room of their elder brother’s estate the following evening. Heath stood by the window as Drake paced the floor, restless after the rushed ride from London.

  “I appreciate your fast response,” he said, pouring his brother a glass of brandy from the sideboard.

  “I practically broke my neck getting here,” Drake replied. “Is it Auclair? Brentford again?” His eyes narrowed. “I knew I should have beaten him senseless.”

  “Auclair has not made another move.”

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope he’s disappeared for good.”

  “Probably.” Heath handed Drake the glass, his smile strained. “This is awkward.”

  “Awkward? I left a nubile brunette half fainting on the sofa at Audrey’s. I’d say it was agony, not awkward.”

  “I’m sure she’ll wait.”

  Drake stifled a yawn and dropped into a brass-studded armchair. “If you really want me to dispose of a body, speak up. Hamm can help. Let’s get it over with.”

  Heath paused at the sound of feminine laughter in the hallway. “It’s not a body. Well, actually, it is. My body, or an unauthorized, naked rendition of it. A sketch Julia made of me has gone missing.”

  Drake choked down the sip of brandy he had just taken. An evil grin spread across his face. His features were similar to Heath’s, but more hard-edged, the angles sharper. “Your . . . you, naked?”

  “If you start to laugh,” Heath said coolly, “there will indeed be a dead body that requires disposal.”

  “Where has it gone?”

  “Hermia hired two chimney sweeps off the street to clear out the clutter of the music room. Julia had hidden the sketch of me there. For safety.”

  “Sink me,” Drake said, flicking back his coattails. “A pair of sweeps could have dragged the damn thing anywhere.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Perhaps it found its way into the Louvre,” Drake said. “We’ll have to send Wellington to reclaim it.”

  “I have slightly lower aspirations of my artistic worth,” Heath said. “I am personally appalled imagining my bare image being paraded through the alleyways of St. Giles. I know it wasn’t exactly Julia’s fault, but it is embarrassing.”

  “It ought to fetch a fortune on the black market,” Drake said. “Think of all the women who would kill to possess it. What does it look like?”

  “Like me in the nude, I assume.”

  “What in the blazes would possess Julia to do such a thing?”

  “You’d have to ask her, wouldn’t you?”

  Drake paused. “Never mind. I already know. The question is: Does Russell?”

  Heath glanced up, distracted by the door opening behind them to admit Hermia, and Julia, his wanton artist herself, in a lilac muslin dinner dress. He straightened, his gaze traveling over her in dark appreciation.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, hiding behind Hermia. “A family conference, and I think I know the reason why.”

  Hermia looked directly at Drake. “Have you found it yet?”

  He rose politely to address her. “I haven’t, but I am about to embark on my quest. Could either of you describe the sketch to me?”

  Julia twisted the fringe of her shawl in her fingers. “Really, I’d rather not.”

  “It is me, rendered as the God Apollo,” Heath said in exasperation. “It shouldn’t be that hard to recognize.”

  “Well,” Julia murmured, “except for the tiny fact that I rendered you a cartoon.”

  “A cartoon?” he said blankly.

  She turned to the fire. Never in a thousand years had she imagined that her sketch would fall into public hands. No wonder the ton called her the Wicked Lady Whitby. What a horrid impression to make upon Heath’s family, and to think she had only meant it in fun. “I distorted certain parts of your anatomy. You know, made one of those caricatures that are so popular in the press.”

  Hermia gasped. “Not that sketch?”

  “Find the cursed thing,” Heath said darkly. What an appalling thought, to be immortalized as a nude cartoon. “Find it, or there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  Drake took a light dinner with Heath and Julia and retired immediately afterward so that he could have an early start on his rather amusing quest the next day. It was Julia who remarked on the situation to Heath as they sat before the fire in her room. “That sketch has begun to cause you embarrassment, and it has not yet been viewed. I am sorry.”

  “So you’ve said.” He smiled reluctantly, unable to stay angry at her. Having realized how much he needed her in his life, he was not about to quarrel over this. Not when there were other more serious problems they must face. “I’m sure I will survive this, Julia. Do not lose sleep over it.”

  Although he might. Lord above, what an unprecedented embarrassment. He could just see himself walking into his club and finding that sketch on the wall. His friends would laugh themselves into a stupor. He would be known as the Naked Apollo until his dying day. He would never live this down.

  “You haven’t seen it yet,” Julia murmured. Her voice indicated that he wouldn’t be so forgiving if he had. “Perhaps the sweeps burned it.”

  “Go to bed, Julia.” He stood and reached down for her hands. As she rose, he drew her into his arms.

  He kissed her until he felt her hands slide around his neck, until she was relaxed, responsive, her breathing warm on his neck. He was hard as steel in an instant, the familiar molten heat flooding his body.

  “How did I live without you all these years?” he asked, closing his eyes, rubbing against her.

  “Don’t live without me ever again,” she whispered.

  Already they had fallen into the secret world of their love affair. He undressed her slowly, going down on his knees to remove her garters and flesh-colored stockings. He placed his palms inside her thighs and pushed.

  She gripped his shoulders, her hair gleaming like dark flames in the firelight. “Sinful man,” she said in a broken voice.

  “Sinful woman.”

  “Only with you.”

  “I shall have to be very good to make sure.” His hands curled around the white globes of her bottom. He nuzzled her nest of fragrant darkened curls. “Or very bad. Which do you prefer?”

  “I think—” She groaned and would have collapsed, but his strong hands braced her buckling knees.

  “I think you prefer it when I’m bad,” he murmured as he held her
trembling body in helpless submission.

  He rose swiftly to take her into his arms. Julia began to undress him, kissing each part of his body that she uncovered until he stood nude and fully aroused. She walked him backward to the bed and took his sleek rod between her hands. Now that she had allowed expression of her feelings for him, she could not seem to stop herself, to stop touching him. She could never deny what he meant to her again. He seemed to understand her so well, and anticipate her moods, her needs. “How bad can you be?” she asked, bending her head to kiss the knob of his erection.

  He flexed his hips and anchored his legs around her lower body to imprison her. “I’m a Boscastle. There are no limits.”

  As if to prove this, he clamped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto his rampant shaft, only to impale her as he lowered her back down. He groaned with pleasure as he sank deeply into her wet channel. “That feels nice, doesn’t it?”

  She threw her head back and stretched her spine, the movement pure sexual reaction. He caught his breath and moved his hands up her belly to her full, flushed breasts, pinching and stroking the dark tips between his fingers. She moaned, her lips parted in pleasure.

  He rode her harder, inflamed by her passion, his muscular thighs gripping her in a vise. He was in total control, loving how her soft bottom sat against his belly, how open and silky wet she was inside.

  “You feel incredibly good,” he muttered, pushing upward.

  “You feel . . . incredibly big.”

  He lifted his lean hips and thrust. “Poor darling.”

  “It wasn’t a complaint.”

  He rolled her onto her back, their bodies still connected. She hooked her legs up around him, absorbing every stroke of his thick shaft. He had never loved a woman like this before, with his heart, his soul, his physical being. He had never experienced this heady surge of emotional intensity and sexual need. There had been other women in his life, but no one like her, no one who had stolen his heart. Somewhere deep inside he had been waiting for her. He’d been afraid to admit it, afraid he would never have another chance with her.