Wicked As Sin

by Jillian Hunter

  He looked down at her in undisguised satisfaction. “I think you’re trapped—you can’t possibly go any farther.”

  “Curtains, Gabriel. The curtains.”

  He blinked, then cast a disinterested glance at the faded draperies that flanked them. “Yes. Moth-eaten. Mildewed. Didn’t we already establish that?”

  He kissed her softly on the mouth, his hands still enclosing her on either side. Her heartbeat escalated. “What I meant to say is that—”

  “—you’re going to marry me,” he said, easing his tongue between her parted lips. “We can talk about curtains all you like then.”

  Her blood flared at the intimate heat rising between them. How easily his brief kiss unbalanced her. “Marry you?”

  “Your answer?”

  She could not breathe.

  “Where there are curtains,” she managed to continue, “there is usually a window. In case you haven’t noticed, we are in view of the carriage drive.”

  “I understand your concern,” he murmured. “Do me a favor, darling. Turn around.”

  “What—” She had no notion why she obeyed, but she did. “And now?”

  His warm mouth traveled down her nape. “Don’t move.”

  “Why not?”

  “Please. Just humor me. Do you notice any suspicious activity outside?”

  “No. Only directly behind me.”

  He laughed.

  She stared down at the sinewy arm locked around her midsection. How male even his wrist looked, his brown skin a sensual contrast to the pristine white cuff of his sleeve. She remembered his hands upon her body last night. Gentle but unmerciful. She gave a shiver and closed her eyes, waiting in delicious anticipation for—

  “Your answer,” he said. “I’m waiting patiently.”

  She turned, looking up. “It’s yes.”

  His hard mouth curved into a smile. “Passion,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her again. “And love.”

  She sighed in anticipation. But their lips barely touched before he lifted his head and swore softly. “The window.”

  She breathed out another sigh. “You’re right—it can wait.” She wasn’t certain that she could, however.

  “There’s a curricle parked in the drive,” he said. “I thought you were keeping watch.”

  She glanced around in chagrin. “It belongs to the Shrewsbury cousins. Three married women who adore creating little scandals out of nothing.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’m only here to bring up your tea.”

  The click-clack of three pairs of slipper heels on the old stairs of the assembly room resounded in the quiet. Alethea stared at the door in dread. Half of Helbourne had already realized that she had not been inviting Gabriel to supper for his card-playing skills alone.

  The other half would know the truth soon enough.

  “We’ll have to be married in London,” he said hurriedly, releasing her. “My cousins will insist upon a family wedding. And a party to announce our engagement.”

  “You are serious.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  The clatter of footsteps grew louder. He glanced around thoughtfully. “Would you like me to hide behind the curtains?”

  “As if that wouldn’t appear suspicious. You might as well pour that—”

  The door opened. A flurry of feminine whispers crept into the silence.

  “Lady Alethea certainly doesn’t appear to be mourning Jeremy much these past few weeks.”

  “Would you?” the youngest cousin asked. “Boscastle is wickedly handsome.”

  “And handsomely wicked from what I understand,” the eldest one said with a sigh.

  “That’s quite a contrast to Lord Jeremy,” the middle one said as they walked into the room. “He was so polite.”

  Then all three of them looked up at the handsomely wicked subject of their debate. He bowed.

  “May I fetch a few more teacups to whet those wagging tongues?” he inquired with a smile that Alethea knew from experience would send every thought out of their heads.

  “We are sorry, Alethea,” the eldest Shrewsbury cousin said. “We had no idea that Sir Gabriel was here—”

  “—to help,” Alethea said hastily. “He’s helping me take down the curtains.”

  “And pour tea,” he added.

  Alethea eyed him closely, as did the three other women in the room. She was not surprised that they had compared him favorably to her late fiancé. But while their comments had secretly pleased her, while she had longed to announce that he was hers, their whispers had also cast a shadow upon her mood.

  Jeremy was still a threat to her happiness. Her shame ran deeper than she had realized.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Alethea feigned sleep during the long carriage ride to London, too absorbed in thoughts of Gabriel, of the upcoming party, to care for conversation. Her cousin, Lady Pontsby, and her brother, Robin, spoke in whispers around her, commenting on how distracted she appeared of late and how it would do her a world of good to attend a party again with the bon ton of her birthright. They couldn’t guess that she and Gabriel had been meeting in private for days and that her distraction stemmed from a cause she had not yet revealed. Her brother had not altogether overcome his doubts about Gabriel, while she was so hopelessly in love with the man she could not sleep nights for staring out her window at his house.

  “She’s lonely,” Lady Pontsby said in concern. “She has secluded herself to the point that she surely will become a spinster. And while Sir Gabriel has proven to be a charming visitor, one cannot help wondering how long he will stay.”

  “She needs time to grieve Jeremy,” Robin said quietly. “She’s not been herself since he’s been gone.”

  “Nonsense. She needs a husband. I never cared all that much for Hazlett, if you must know.”

  “I thought you adored him,” Robin said in surprise.

  “I only pretended for Alethea’s sake,” Lady Pontsby confided in an undertone. “In all honesty I thought him to be a petty young man, always ordering his family about.”

  Alethea managed to suppress a sigh. She wondered if she could pretend to be asleep the entire way to town, and to maintain the pretense when she met Gabriel at his cousin’s party. Soon everyone would know.

  “Dear God above!” Lady Pontsby exclaimed in such a tone of genuine horror that Alethea was forced to have done with pretense altogether. “Brigands! Protect us, Robin.”

  Alethea opened her eyes as, indeed, the vibration of hoofbeats approached the lumbering carriage. To her delight the horseman who cantered up beside them, dark cloak draped upon his broad shoulders, was Gabriel.

  “My friends,” he said, lifting his leather-gloved hand to his forehead. “Allow me to offer you escort. These are”—his eyes twinkled, although he avoided looking directly at Alethea—“dangerous times for the traveler.”

  “They are dangerous times for everyone,” Alethea murmured as she settled back against the cushions.

  Her brother studied her for several moments. “Indeed. I think there are dangers around us of which I have been unaware.”

  A party to celebrate the birthday of Grayson Boscastle, the Most Honorable, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft, was an occasion that the crème de la crème of Society could not refuse. A few of the haut ton had already returned from the seaside or country for the Little Season.

  One could not imagine a more entertaining way to launch back into London life than to brag an invite to Grayson’s magnificent redbrick mansion on Park Lane, once, although it was not mentioned, home to the gallows. Now its close proximity to Hyde Park gave it unquestionable elegance.

  Cattle drovers en route to market and curious city folk peered through the main armorial gates under the watchful scrutiny of several attendant footmen in powdered periwigs and formal knee breeches. Weed, efficient senior footman to the marquess, oversaw the more personal details of the celebrations, from supplying the Italian opera singer with champagne to playing peekaboo be
hind the marble hallway columns with Grayson’s son and heir, Lord Rowan.

  By the time Alethea arrived, the majority of the guests had already drifted from the numerous reception rooms into the side pavilion and from thence into a garden pleasantly shaded by stately plane trees and classical statues of weathered stone.

  There was no sign of Gabriel. “But in this fashionable crush who can spot one’s favorite friend?” she murmured without thinking to her cousin.

  Lady Pontsby smiled in agreement, although she was too dazzled herself by the parade of aristocrats they passed to give Alethea’s comment any deep reflection. “One would not acknowledge him, anyway, without an announcement from the majordomo.”

  “Half of London has already been announced, by the look of it,” Alethea said. “Still, it would be nice to see—”

  “How good to see you here,” a deep teasing voice said from behind them. “I trust your travels were as pleasant as our rustic highways allow.”

  Alethea restrained a gleeful smile and revolved slowly to face her dark knight. “As if you did not follow us through every turnpike, Sir Gabriel.”

  “And gallant of you it was, indeed,” Lady Pontsby said. “A lady cannot claim too many escorts in these hazardous days.”

  Gabriel granted her a genial smile. Before she could continue, however, he had fastened his gaze upon her cousin. He had been waiting—no, pacing like a condemned prisoner—for Weed to alert him to her arrival. He drank in the sight of her. She had swept her dark curly hair back into a loose knot that he ached to undo and spread over her beautiful body. He could not believe he had won her.

  He wanted to announce it to the world, or at least to his family, and keep it secret at the same time. Could he spirit her away to some secluded spot and resume their heated intimacies? It wasn’t as if his cousin’s house had not witnessed its share of amorous scandals.

  He continued to stare at Alethea until she raised an eyebrow in subtle reprimand. Fortunately, Lady Pontsby seemed unaware that he desired nothing more than to be alone with her cousin. By the end of the party or as soon as he could gather the other Boscastles in one room, he would be able to reveal that she was his. Until then he’d have a deuced time acting as if he cared about anyone in attendance other than this one woman who could unravel, chastise, and uplift him in one negligent glance. There was no one else for whom he would discard his prior life without a twinge of regret.

  He had sated himself on sin. Now he wanted only her, and if they played whist in the country every night before he took her to bed, well, he couldn’t be happier.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Lady Pontsby said, her voice raised.

  He shook his head. “Mind what?”

  She scrutinized him with a thoughtful smile. “If I leave you both for a few moments to chat with Lord and Lady Farnsworth. I haven’t seen them in years. Robin is right over there, with Emily’s father. Don’t interrupt them, will you? I am hoping that this is the day we have waited for.”

  He shrugged in an attempt not to announce his pleasure at this opportunity. “I suppose we can manage for a few moments.”

  “Good. Now do enjoy yourselves.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Gabriel extended his arm. “Shall I give you a tour?”

  “Shall I trust you?” she asked, as if it were not evident that there was anyone she trusted more.

  “Of course not. But your cousin did instruct you to enjoy yourself. And by the way, I have missed you.”

  The wicked glitter in his eyes tempted her. “Where are we going?”

  His magnificent shoulders lifted in another shrug. “Here and there.”

  “And for what reason exactly?”

  “Oh, this and that.”

  She laughed. “In that case I don’t think we should be seen walking arm in arm.”

  His diabolical grin set off a delicious swirl of sensations inside her. “As you wish. I do feel compelled to remind you that as of tonight it won’t matter. Our families will know we are engaged.”

  “Which doesn’t mean we can indulge at will in—”

  “—this and that?” He guided her down the endless high-columned hallway, seemingly impervious to the appealing glances of the ladies who recognized him and waited for acknowledgment.

  “You appear to have a string of admirers,” she said dryly, stealing a look at his hard, chiseled profile.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you notice?”

  He glanced around. “Where?”

  “They were—” She hesitated, staring behind him in surprise. While she had been paying attention to the stir he’d caused, he had led her down another corridor to a reception room warmed by a small coal fire. A royal-blue silk chaise occupied one corner. A rosewood table held a basket of imported fruits, two goblets, and a bottle of sparkling wine. “We can’t go in here. It’s clearly meant for—”

  “—family.” He swept her through the door and locked it behind them. “You’re going to be part of the most infamous family in London.”

  “How can you be sure they will accept our engagement that easily?”

  He walked her a few steps into the center of the room. The smile that curved his chiseled mouth made her pulses jump. “If they accepted me into the fold, they will absolutely embrace you as my wife.”

  She edged toward the fireplace. He moved casually to her left, his blue eyes dancing with mirth. “Why do I feel as though we’re playing Puss in the Corner?” she said with a frown.

  He shook his head, took another languid step in her direction. “Do you prefer another game?”

  She nodded firmly. Had the chaise moved toward her? She noticed a card table on the other side of the room. Cards. That might keep his mind occupied. “Whist is fine. Let us sit over—”

  “What about Trump?” he asked, unbuttoning his charcoal-gray jacket.

  “That is a lovely waistcoat, Gabriel,” she said as he gently took her by the hand. “It—did you say Trump? Is that a game of cards?”

  “Oh, have you played it before?” Suddenly they stood at the edge of the chaise until he pressed his mouth to hers, and her knees gave way. “My goodness,” he murmured, standing over her for only a moment. “Are you feeling light-headed? Shall I loosen your gown?”

  “Yes. No. No—don’t you—not a—”

  He lowered himself over her half-reclining form, kissing her until she had forgotten what she was trying to say. His muscular torso and thighs hindered her faint struggle to dislodge him. When she recovered her wits, as well as breath, to look up at him, she felt her heart miss several beats at the sultry passion that darkened his face.

  “I don’t know when we’ll have a chance to be alone together again. Once the Boscastles realize you’re going to be one of them they’ll invite you everywhere.”

  “I haven’t even met most of your family yet,” she whispered.

  His eyes traveled from her mouth to the tiny bows that laced her puffy rose silk sleeves and bodice. “Aren’t we going to be family?”

  She leaned back, her voice catching. “We shall be starting our own family at this rate.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket. To distract herself she took it and folded it neatly on the scrolled mahogany rail of the chaise. The pleasing hint of cologne on the well-tailored garment teased her senses, and she glanced up slowly. He looked gorgeous in his pleated cambric shirt, ivory vest, and snug pantaloons that emphasized his masculinity. No wonder those other ladies had stared at him in the hope of attracting his notice. He exuded a dangerous elegance, a promise of wicked pleasures, that made a woman abandon caution and propriety. And yet for all his unreserved sexuality, he had shown her more concern than the man her parents had chosen for her. Still, she shouldn’t let him seduce her at his cousin’s party.

  “I think—” She started to rise. “Is that someone in the hall?”

  His thumb traced her jawline, then slowly dropped into the deep hollow between her breasts. She slid back down onto
the chaise, overcome, unable to remember why she had wanted to get up in the first place. “It doesn’t matter. The door is locked.”

  Her breath quivered as he caressed her swelling breasts. Warm tingles of excitement stole down her spine. She stirred, her nipples distended, her body restless. “I thought—you don’t even have a pack of cards, Gabriel,” she said with a sniff of indignation.

  His eyes gleamed as he settled alongside her. “You don’t need any for this game. It’s called Boscastle Trump.”

  “You fraud,” she whispered, the power of his hard body weakening her. “There is no such game. You made it up.”

  A roguish grin spread across his face. He dipped his head and pressed hot kisses across her décolletage. She felt a throbbing heat between her thighs. “I didn’t.” He blew softly on her breasts. Pleasure flooded her. “It’s a genuine parlor game. For two players.”

  “One of whom is the parlor maid?” she asked, her back arching, her body inviting more.

  He paused, looking up seductively into her eyes. “Come to think, it’s the Boscastle version of another game.”

  Her breasts ached from his arousing kisses. She knew she was playing right into his hands. “A game of trump with no cards?”

  “It’s more of a legerdemain.” He sat back with an expression of utmost seriousness. “An illusion,” he mused, shifting his position again to run his hand over her crossed ankles.

  She stared down at his blunt-tipped fingers in fascination until they disappeared under her dress. “A very convincing illusion,” she said, her eyes lowering in unwilling pleasure. “What must I do to win?”

  His left shoulder lifted in a shrug. His hand, meanwhile, slipped up over her stocking, then her garter. “Well, the quickest hand wins.”

  She reached down for his wrist before she completely lost her wits. He was too good at disarming her; the warmth pooling in the pit of her belly would soon flood her entire body if he continued to touch her. “The quickest hand wins? Is that all?”

  He looked up at her again, desire kindling in his eyes. “There’s a little more skill involved than that. Do you want me to teach you the game?”