The marquess had ordered the gardens as well as the interior of the house decorated for the wedding reception. The weather was mild but not overwarm, with the faintest hint of a breeze. Sedgecroft’s private orchestra played from a hidden glade of ferns; servants in gold-braided livery and formal white wigs stood sentinel at every pathway to offer cake and champagne. The purebred horses in the immaculate stable were festooned with white silk rosettes and paraded around the estate.
The ceremony went off without a flaw. The bride wore an off-white silk wedding dress with a scalloped Brussels lace bodice over a pearl-white tissue slip. White kidskin gloves and white satin slippers completed her dress. Her bridal veil was secured by a wreath of deep pink rosebuds entwined with ivy leaves. She did not, as one newspaper later reported, carry a pistol.
The groom wore a double-breasted dark blue tailcoat over a white cambric shirt, embroidered waistcoat, and fitted black pantaloons. He cut such an achingly handsome figure that Julia had a hard time keeping her hands to herself.
Devon was sitting in the midst of a group of young ladies, who giggled at his every utterance. The Marquess of Sedgecroft served as the best man; his wife, Jane, watched the wedding with one of his aunts from the front row of the small family chapel in the west wing. Hermia and Odham sat beside them, not talking to each other. They had quarreled over breakfast, but agreed to appear together in public for Julia’s sake.
Lord Drake Boscastle sauntered into the chapel a minute or so before the ceremony began with a voluptuous young woman no one recognized. Viscount Stratfield brought his beautiful raven-haired wife, Chloe, to serve as a bridesmaid while he watched the wedding, although his eyes never strayed from Chloe the whole time. Emma stood as matron-of-honor, gently insisting that Jane, expecting the family heir, was not an appropriate choice for the job.
Audrey Watson shook her head in wistful approval as Heath tenderly took his bride into his arms to kiss her. “Rogue,” she murmured. “Another Boscastle has broken my heart.” She glanced around the crowded chapel, her face brightening at the sight of his two younger brothers in dutiful attendance. “Oh, well. There’s always hope, isn’t there, Drake?”
“That depends on what you’re talking about, Audrey, the altar, or an affair.”
“What a rake you are, Drake Boscastle,” the woman sitting beside him exclaimed. “Can’t you behave even during a wedding ceremony?”
He glanced up at Heath and broke into a wicked grin. “It’s not my wedding, thank God.”
Voices rose around the chapel in congratulations as the minister pronounced the couple before him to be man and wife. Julia felt Heath’s strong hand close around hers as the guests stood to cheer them. “There’s no escaping me now,” he said softly, brushing her veil back from her cheek.
She stared up at him. “That goes for you, too.”
“You’ll never be rid of me now. We did it, darling.”
She caught her breath. She could not believe that he finally was hers. That she was Heath Boscastle’s bride. Guests were bumping against them. He kept a tight grip on her hand, even as he dutifully kissed sisters, aunts, and cousins. His brothers naturally tried to outdo one another buzzing her on the cheek.
“Mine,” he said politely, pulling her away. “Find your own.”
“Are you ever going to let go of her hand?” his young cousin Charlotte Boscastle teased.
“No.” He tugged Julia out of Devon’s arms. “I’m not.”
The wedding feast took place in the formal banqueting hall. Dancing went on until the evening in the domed-ceiling ballroom with a quartet playing in the balcony. Julia had never heard so much laughter in her entire life, and the music of it warmed her heart. Her own upbringing had been often lonely.
Heath looked down on the celebration, Julia’s head resting on his shoulder. He’d spirited her away during a waltz. “How long do we have before they realize we’re gone?” she asked.
“Days. Devon’s toasted everyone but the gardener.”
“We should have at least bid everyone good evening.”
“Trust me. I’m a master at fading into the background. They’ll never miss us.”
True to his word, they were locked inside the east tower suite seven minutes later. A small fire had been lit. Two bottles of champagne sat on the table along with a tray of thinly sliced ham, crusty bread, and tiny French pastries.
Heath stripped down to his shirt and pantaloons while Julia sat on the bed sipping champagne. She watched him with growing desire, admiring the muscled lines of his body, that easy male elegance that never failed to stir her senses. Champagne and her husband. The combination went straight to her head.
“Nice wedding, wasn’t it?” she asked, swallowing as he came toward her.
“I thought so.”
“We were both on our best behavior.”
“Until now.”
He knelt before her to remove her slippers and pink stockings, spreading her legs apart as he did. Julia stared down into his dark sardonic face, her breath quickening with unabashed need. “Are we going to revert to our former ways?”
“Naturally.” He rose up onto the bed to untie the back of her boned French corset. “You look very desirable tonight, Lady Boscastle.”
“Look who’s talking.”
He peeled the corset from her breasts and leaned over her soft curvaceous body. “I’ve heard some titillating rumors about you.”
She closed her eyes. His hand slid up her hip to squeeze her breast. “They’re all true, unfortunately. I can’t deny them.”
“Deny them?” He rolled over and covered her mouth with his. “I was hoping you would prove them.”
She brought her hands to his chest, tracing the deep indentations of muscle. “Is this what you had in mind?” she whispered against his lips.
“That will do nicely for a start. But, please, allow me.”
“Allow you—”
She felt her wrists imprisoned in his hand, an enslavement of the most erotic order. She strained, testing him. He tightened his hold on her. He eased his other hand down her hip, into the warm hollow of her thighs. It was a fleeting brush of his fingers, a teasing promise. She felt herself opening to him, her body throbbing for more, begging in silence for him to do his worst.
“Please,” she whispered.
“My beloved wife, our wedding night has just begun. I do not intend to rush it.”
“Our wedding night,” she murmured. “It seems so long ago that I dreamed of this.”
“Did you, Julia?” he asked softly. “Then I think that we shared the same dream.”
She laughed in delight. “What would people think if they heard Heath Boscastle, the consummate master of self-control, confessing that he dreamed about marrying the woman who had shot him?”
“I confess that I do not care what anyone outside this house thinks.”
She studied him with a tender smile. “And you don’t care that Russell has claimed your glory?”
“Glory.” He gave a deep sigh. “There’s no glory in killing, only peace, perhaps, in knowing that Auclair cannot threaten us again. Let Russell be a hero for as long as it lasts. God knows that I do not want the acclaim.”
“Russell was never my hero,” she said, smiling up at him.
“No?”
“It was always you. Perhaps I should have told him how I felt about you.”
He shook his head. “You should have told me.”
“May I tell you what I feel now?”
He gave her a roguish smile. “I know exactly what you feel.”
“Then . . . “
“Our wedding night,” he reminded her, “is an experience that I fully intend for both of us to enjoy.”
He kept his word.
He stroked, brought pleasure to all the secret places of her body. He aroused her to the point where she was shaking, out of her mind with need. She gave herself to him, accepted each touch until she thought she would shatter if he did not allow her re
lease. He caressed her everywhere but where she needed him the most. He refused to hurry. She was achingly damp deep inside.
“Sweet,” he whispered, and drew the peak of her breast between his teeth. “Naughty,” he added, lifting her legs over his powerful shoulders. “Delicious Julia. Thank you for agreeing to be my wife.”
He gripped her bottom and thrust inside her to the hilt. For a moment she did not move. It was enough to simply feel. Then her body welcomed him with a passion more than equal to his. He flexed his spine as he sank into her passage. She lifted her hips to his and moaned in pleasure.
Heath released her hands and felt his heart tighten as she reached up to touch him. She traced the scars on his chest, sculpted the hard muscles of his back and buttocks with her fingertips, urging him closer, deeper. He studied her face, lost himself in the warmth and love he could see in her eyes. He had never looked at anyone, loved another human being as he did her. She had set his heart free so that he could give it to her as he had once meant to.
He caught her hands again, interlacing their fingers. He wanted to be joined to her in every way. He threw back his head and surged into her. She answered with sensual abandon, her muscles gripping his shaft. He felt his control slipping as the heat in his blood came to a scalding boil. He was still holding her hands when she came, and his heart thundered so hard he could hardly draw a breath.
“My God, you’re beautiful,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut to take his own release. “My wife.” His voice was hoarse. “My love.”
She lay tangled in the sheets beneath him when he was spent, her face pressed to his shoulder. For several minutes they held each other, warm, sated, and reluctant to break the mood. She felt cherished and protected, overwhelmed with appreciation that they had found each other again. When he spoke, it was almost as if he had read her thoughts.
“I did not believe I could ever feel as happy as I am now.” He kissed the top of her head, threading his fingers through the heavy red hair that fell down her back.
“Nor I.”
He lifted his head slightly. “Listen. Do you hear that?”
She opened her eyes and laughed. “It’s your brother’s orchestra—he’s got them playing outside the tower.”
Heath grinned. “I ought to strangle him.”
“Not on our wedding night, please.”
“Good point. I shall do it in the morning.”
A few hours later that same brother sent up a servant with another tray of food and drink to be set discreetly outside the tower door. Heath did not stir. He had thrown on a dressing robe and was at the fire, sketching his naked wife in passionate absorption.
Julia glanced at the door. “Shouldn’t we at least say thank you to all our guests?”
“That can also wait until the morning. Grayson will invite them to stay. Lift your right leg up onto the bed, darling. Bend forward a little. Hold up your hair.”
“You are an incorrigible rogue, Heath Boscastle. This is a shameful position.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“May I ask why you are doing this?”
“To return the favor, my love. Is it wrong for a man to sketch his own bride?”
She let her hair fall down her back, gasping. “You aren’t going to publish it?”
“Don’t be insulting. It’s a wedding gift.”
She frowned at him over her shoulder. “I don’t particularly want a sketch of my backside. Pearls, yes. Diamonds, possibly. But a drawing . . . of me undressed.”
He circled the sketching easel, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Very nice—what did you say? Ah, the gift. It is for my enjoyment only. A gift to myself if you will.”
“I won’t,” Julia retorted, straightening her back. “I mean, I won’t pose.”
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I posed for you.”
She turned in his arms but made no effort to disengage herself. “And look at the trouble that caused.”
“I wish,” he said quietly, “that we may cause each other trouble for the rest of our lives.”
“I think you can count on that,” she whispered.
Heath slid his hand down her half-bare shoulder to her waist, urging her into him. “Julia,” he murmured.
“Go ahead,” she said in an undertone. “Do it. We’re both dying of curiosity. Perhaps we shall feel better if we get it over with once and for all.”
“Do what?” he asked in a deep, deliberate voice.
“This.” She angled her head to bring her full red mouth to his. Her warm breath taunted his jaw. “Kiss me, and then we shall know.”
He cradled the back of her head in his hand. Her lips parted.
She had the softest, most erotic mouth he had ever tasted. Forbidden fruit. He wanted to eat his fill of her, taste her from top to bottom. Incredible that this feeling could flare up between them, hotter, more dangerous than before.
God help him. He had not counted on this, that his talent for seduction would meet its match in the one woman he had wanted and lost.
Also by Jillian Hunter
(published by Ivy Books)
THE SEDUCTION OF AN ENGLISH SCOUNDREL
THE LOVE AFFAIR OF AN ENGLISH LORD
The Wedding Night of an English Rogue Page 31
