Wicked As Sin

by Jillian Hunter

  She smiled, stared up into his eyes, and gently slapped him across the back of his thigh with her riding crop. “And I believe you’re the one who mentioned the timely delivery of discipline.”

  He closed his eyes, indulging in a delicious moment of self-torture. “I asked for that.”

  “And I asked what you were doing here at this hour,” she said softly. “You could have sent a servant for flour.”

  He opened his eyes. “I was rescuing you, wasn’t I?”

  She drew the crop up to his chest, delicately caressing the scar at his throat. “Unless you have been peering through the windows, I cannot imagine how you’d have known I needed to be rescued.”

  She turned, only to discover herself drawn back and trapped again in his arms. Her heart fluttered in unbidden excitement as he looked into her eyes. She did not, could not, find the strength to look away. He smiled, then pulled her into his chest. Without a word, he lowered his head to kiss her again.

  She drew her breath and tried to count to ten to clear her thoughts. She lost track of her numbers at three. His kiss rendered any effort to ignore him useless. Heat shimmered down her shoulders, her arms, her spine. She felt suddenly unfettered, on fire. Light as a flame, capable of scorching anything she touched. Gabriel. The one man she should run from at all cost. But he had come to her rescue, her knight-errant. For that one act alone she could convince herself he deserved a kiss, even if she had no idea who would rescue her from him.

  She leaned away from him. He followed, his hands expertly skimming the shape of her breasts, her back, then abandoning this wicked foray before she could mount a protest.

  Who would have known that his thick, calloused fingers could evoke this tender yearning? “Why?” she whispered in bewilderment. “Why am I letting you kiss me?”

  He laughed. “I’ve no idea. My advice, the rule I follow, is to enjoy now and repent later.”

  “That is not a rule at all.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “It is a lack of one.”

  He ran his hand down her spine again to rest in a proprietary manner on her bottom. “Do I have to let you go?” he asked her with a playful smile.

  She shook her head without hesitation. “Yes.”

  “I thought so.” He studied the floor as if there were inspiration to be found in the vicinity of his feet. Indeed, she glanced down herself. As to be expected, when he looked up again, the dark gleam in his eye revealed his motives to be more devious than innocent. “And may I return?”

  She took her time considering her reply, although he must have sensed that she would agree. “Yes, but only for supper. And with a full complement of guests. My brother is due to arrive home next week.”

  “When?” he asked, after another pause. “When may I come back? Do I have to wait for his return if I promise to behave?”

  “You don’t know how.”

  “I’ll practice.”

  She bit the edge of her lip, laughter in her eyes. It was almost midnight, and all she knew of this man, aside from the fact that his kisses muddled her wits, was that he had not only misspent his youth, but that his present and future appeared to be no brighter. She was not sure how inviting him to supper would benefit either of them. But she wanted to see him again. Just the way he smiled at her made it worth the risk.

  She said, “On Friday evening.” So much could happen before then. He could run away. Or reform. Or—

  He nodded solemnly. “Five days hence. Yes. I shall be honored to come.”

  “Do you want your sack of flour, Gabriel?”

  “My—I don’t care.”

  “That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

  “Why don’t you give me a crust of bread instead?”

  She grinned in delight. “To go with your ham and violet jelly?”

  “I ate the damn ham,” he said gruffly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days later Gabriel was thundering in the Tuesday predawn gloom back to London, leaving turnpikes, quiet hamlets, and temptation behind him. He had awakened before dawn, looked out the window across his weed-choked garden toward Alethea’s house, and realized he was in danger of losing himself. When he was younger he had known exactly what he was up against. His lot had seemed unfair but at least he had understood it.

  He wasn’t a country gentleman. He was a gamester, a soldier, and if circumstance had shaped his character in undesirable ways, he’d had no reason to change it. He couldn’t possibly put down roots, even in the soil that had spawned him. God only knew what he might grow into. It would be a discourtesy to Alethea to stay any longer. In fact, it was a sign of his true affection for her, removing himself from her life.

  He’d dressed and pounded down the stairs, bellowing for his horse, his breakfast, his coachman. Bellowing to a negligent staff who would not bestir themselves unless the very roof collapsed upon the house. He bridled and saddled his mount in the dark, and truth be told the Andalusian seemed as eager to escape, for action, as its master. His coachman, accustomed to Gabriel’s restless ways, quietly agreed to follow.

  He could not stay here another day, another hour, his entire life. This was what he had escaped. He’d told himself so many times over that it was a kindness to Alethea to leave that he believed it. Last night, if she’d given him any encouragement at all, he would have proved to her that he was no better than her other visitor. He would have promised her whatever she desired and not meant it.

  Or, he would have meant it, an even worse possibility, which suggested that he wasn’t running back to London to save Alethea’s honor as much as to save himself.

  It was a heartening sign, Alethea thought. An indication of respect for her feelings that Gabriel did not visit her in the next two days. If he’d appeared unannounced at her door again, after the displeasure she had expressed over Guy’s unheralded visit and subsequent offer, she might have refused to receive him. Then again, she might have been persuaded to ask him to tea.

  And allowed him to kiss her again.

  She could only hope, however, that he had taken her advice to heart and was setting his estate in order. She, on the other hand, was letting the dogs run around the house unrestrained, wearing her hair loose like a pagan, and opening her window at night to watch Venus rise in the sky. The fact that a new owner had moved into Helbourne Hall had nothing to do with her sudden penchant for evening air or the energy she felt after months of melancholy. She thought of herself as a late-winter tulip, poking through layers of crusty earth to enjoy the sun.

  Even her brother, Robin, noticed her uplifted spirits when he arrived home, dusty, disheveled, but in his usual agreeable mood. “Did the gypsies cross your palm with silver while I was gone? I haven’t seen you smile like this in ages.”

  “Have I become that morose?” she asked in chagrin. She hadn’t forgotten how to laugh, she wanted to add. It was just that there had not been much to amuse her these days.

  He regarded her fondly as she preceded him into the drawing room, where the table had been set with a light breakfast of bacon, muffins, and strong hot coffee.

  He was only an inch taller than Alethea, lean, with silky brown hair that constantly fell over his left brow. “I wish you’d come to London with me. Your friends begged me for news of you. Cassandra Waverley has just been delivered of twins. It would do you a world of good to visit her.”

  It wouldn’t have, though. She would have felt envious, afraid that she would only ever know the closeness of children as a governess. He chatted on. Her thoughts strayed until he paused and then, to her embarrassment, she blurted out, “We have a new neighbor. An old one, actually. It’s Gabriel Boscastle.” Now that she had finally spoken his name aloud, she realized she had not banished him from her mind but only admitted that he dominated her thoughts. It did not help that after the blank expression faded from her brother’s face, he stared at her in amused horror.

  “You do remember him?” she prompted. “His father died—
”

  “Gabriel and his brothers beat the guts out of every boy in school. I think he was even put in the pillory once for—”

  Alethea slid a plate of muffins toward him. “You’ve gone far too thin since you left. Didn’t you have a decent meal in London?”

  He glanced down at the table. “I’ve just eaten three of those. Now back to—”

  “Well, have another. They won’t keep. Or have another slice of bacon—and eggs. I’ll ask Mrs. Sudley to make some.”

  “He was put into the pillory,” he continued, pushing his plate aside. “Mind you, he—”

  “He never walloped you, did he?” she asked, taking a breath. “I mean, I don’t recall you ever coming home from school battered and bruised. You had no fights with him that I can remember.”

  He tapped his long fingers on the edge of the table, eyeing her with suspicion. “No. I didn’t, and I always wondered why. Do you have any answers?”

  Alethea picked up her cup, pretending not to notice his wary scrutiny. “Perhaps he liked you. You’re a rather pleasant sort even if you are my brother. I know Emily thinks so. Speaking of Emily, you didn’t happen to visit her in London? Or propose, as you have been promising for the past five months? Or is it five years? It isn’t fair to keep her waiting this long. I don’t think you want to get married at all.”

  He regarded her steadily. “I think you should come with me the next time I go.”

  “When will that be?” she asked, exhaling in relief that the subject of their notorious neighbor had been supplanted by talk of Robin’s love interest. Every time he worked up the courage to propose to Emily, he was besieged by an attack of nerves. Alethea had begun to fear they would grow old and unloved together with no children to enrich their future. She would probably be hand-feeding him muffins forever.

  “I’m leaving again on Friday morning,” he said with a grin. “And if all goes well I am proposing that night. Would you like to hide behind the sofa and prompt me in case my resolution falters?”

  “Friday? I was planning—I’ve invited Mrs. Bryant and a few other friends over to dinner. It’s been a long time since we’ve reciprocated.”

  He sighed. “It’s all right,” he said after several moments. “I understand. You miss him, and you’re still in mourning.”

  Him. Jeremy, he meant. That blazing bastard who had become canonized in local memory.

  She felt tears sting her eyes. Not tears of grief, but rather of bitter amusement and frustration. How she wanted to tell Robin the truth. But her brother would never recover if she did. He would blame himself for not protecting her, for not confronting Jeremy that night in London. Still, the words bubbled up inside, like a slow-festering poison, and she ached to release them.

  Instead she said, because it was the easiest manner in which to distract him, “And I’ve invited Gabriel Boscastle here to supper, too. I thought you would be home to serve as host, or I might not have done so. But it would be rude now to explain that he can’t come. I’ve invited him, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A rolling stone should gather neither moss nor memories. Gabriel was accustomed to hasty exits and unplanned escapes from both battle and bedroom scenes. It was practically habit by now to throw himself over his horse and ride half-asleep to parts unknown.

  But he was only three hours onto the Great London Road before he realized that the heaviness in his chest wasn’t the usual relief but regret. He would live the rest of his life wondering what he had missed by leaving.

  Damnation, a man could not miss what he’d never known, could he? And he’d never had an affair with anyone like Alethea before. Who was to say that she wouldn’t be the end of him if he stayed? Besides that, he couldn’t imagine having supper at her house without doing something to merit banishment forever.

  It just seemed easier to bow out, as rude as that might be, than to humiliate himself in her presence.

  It seemed easier to dream of her, knowing his yearnings would never be realized, than to face the end of his most cherished fantasies.

  At least that was the thought with which he consoled himself as he arrived at the Mayfair town house of his older cousin, Lieutenant Colonel Lord Heath Boscastle. He could have turned up like a stray cat at the door of any of the London Boscastles and been invited to stay. In fact, he had done so more times than he could count since he had made peace with this side of the family.

  The fact remained that of all his male relations, Lord Heath seemed the one least likely to judge or ask questions—a presumption that the most reserved of the Boscastle men turned upon its ear the very minute that Gabriel let down his guard in his cousin’s study.

  It was a room of mystery, hushed and reverent with the ambience of ancient knowledge and secrets never revealed, not unlike the raven-haired former spy who sat half-shadowed in silent appraisal behind his military desk. Books with broken spines and vellum-leather bindings, many in archaic languages, filled the shelves that lined the walls. Several maps of Egypt and Europe, military campaigns in relief, hung between the curtained bow windows.

  Gabriel gathered that not only had Heath read all the obscure books in his library, he most likely possessed the intellect to have written them. He was the family sphinx, the calm one said to be capable of coaxing a confession from the stoniest adversary. His silence played upon the nerves.

  Gabriel laughed. “What have I done? What’s wrong? I’ve only been gone a few days. What could have happened in a week?”

  “In this family?” Heath gave a wry smile. “I should not need to explain. The Boscastles barely require an hour to disgrace themselves.”

  “True. Isn’t that part of their charm?”

  “Where have you been, Gabriel?”

  “In Enfield, lording it over a country manor I won in a card game.”

  “Enfield? Was that not where you were born?”

  By damn, what a memory. Gabriel never spoke of his past to anyone. “Yes.”

  Heath glanced down at the orderly piles of letters and documents on his desk. “And has the prodigal son found what he sought? Escape? Diversion?”

  “Hardly,” Gabriel said in amusement.

  “No secret jaunts back to London?”

  He straightened. “Not in the last week.”

  Heath looked up.

  Years ago, while Gabriel had waged war against his private demons, he had isolated himself from the Boscastles proper, the London trunk of the notorious ancestral tree. But in the recent past he’d carved a comfortable niche for himself in the family, and while Gabriel’s code of conduct still might have raised eyebrows in the stuffiest homes, he had never broken a confidence or engaged in any true disloyalty toward his cousins.

  “What manner of secret jaunts are we discussing, Heath?” he asked, more at ease now that he’d made a hasty assessment of his conscience for some obscure misdeed.

  It couldn’t have anything to do with Alethea. Hell’s bells, he’d been on his best behavior—at least by his former scoundrel’s standards. He had kissed her. That was not a black mark in the Boscastle book of sins. It was only a beginning…and the mere thought of kissing her again reinforced his desire to return.

  Heath merely smiled.

  “Devil take me,” he said in annoyance. “I forgot Grayson’s natal ball, didn’t I? The one where tickets are to be auctioned off for one of Jane’s charities? I cannot believe anyone would even miss me in a squeeze like that. I shall atone. What can I buy Jane? She likes shoes and jewelry—what if I have a pair of dancing shoes specially fashioned for her dainty feet, ones with diamonds on the toes?”

  Heath shook his head. “Grayson’s birthday falls at the end of the month. You’re invited. You are always invited.”

  “Not always,” Gabriel said before he realized what he had admitted. Therein lay the problem with Heath. One simply had to sit alone with him and exchange a few meaningless comments, and secrets began spilling out like a fountain.

&nb
sp; Still, there’d been a time when Gabriel had not been in close harmony with his cousins. He had deliberately antagonized them during the few family gatherings he’d attended. It had seemed easier in the midst of all that Boscastle esprit de corps to pretend his own family had not fallen apart and that he had not regarded the rambunctious lot of them with envy.

  “That was your choice, Gabriel,” Heath said without any trace of condemnation. “We would have welcomed you at any time. As I recall, you were invited to every important function. You and your brothers refused us more often than not.”

  “Those were trying years for my family. I was not exactly fit company for the ton.”

  Heath met his gaze. “So I understand. Yet you never told us. Nor did your mother.”

  What else did Heath know of his past? Things that Gabriel himself had forgotten or had never been told?

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “If it is not a family matter that I’ve missed, why am I under your suspicion, for that is what underlies this conversation.”

  “Not my suspicion. But I will admit that I have associates in London who have come to me in private and inquired about your recent whereabouts.”

  By which Heath could be referring to any number of informants in the lowest wards, including constables and runners, politicians and prostitutes. As a retired intelligence officer, he claimed a list of loyal supporters who befriended him to this day.

  “Well, are you going to tell me why they wish to know my whereabouts, or is this some form of Boscastle torture?” he asked genially.

  He could not believe that his gambling had aroused Crown suspicion. And for the first time in many years, his conscience was actually clear, unless one counted his desire for Alethea Claridge.

  Heath picked up his pen. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “I might, if I had a bloody idea what you’re nattering on about.”

  “A man of your description has been engaging in some housebreakings across London that involve sleeping ladies in Mayfair.”