Wicked As Sin

by Jillian Hunter

  “I warned her about you,” the intruder said. It was the conniving thief Gabriel had caught in the woods. And damned if the young reprobate had not only broken into Gabriel’s bedroom but was brandishing the very sword he’d failed to steal before.

  Gabriel pulled the coverlet up around Alethea’s shoulders. “Everyone has warned her about me. What is your name?”

  “Gabriel.”

  He laughed. “Who the hell named you that?”

  “The people in the parish who took me in after I ran away from the orphanage. They said I reminded them of someone.” The sword shook slightly in his grasp. “Did you hurt her?”

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “I’ve seen her crying in the woods this past week, and you were gone. And now”—he didn’t look down at the bed—“you’re here.”

  “So is she. I’m going to marry her. That sword looks heavy. I think you should put it down.

  Gabriel.”

  “Does she want to marry you?”

  Gabriel glanced down at her profile. “Yes.” He looked up with a wry smile. “Were you going to fight me if I’d hurt her?”

  “Nah. I’d kill you.”

  “A brave ambition. Put down my sword.”

  “You’re certain she’s all right?”

  “Yes,” Gabriel replied. “And I’m also certain that if she wakes up and realizes you have seen her here, she will be very upset.”

  He backed away from the bed.

  “Leave the sword at the door,” Gabriel said, still not moving.

  The boy shrugged but lowered his arm, his face registering a fleeting relief.

  “Do you like horses?” Gabriel asked him curiously.

  “God, I do.”

  “And you would fight to protect Lady Alethea? Why?”

  He shrugged again. “She’s been decent to me. I’m not moonstruck over her, though, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Gabriel smiled. “I wasn’t. But I will need another groom for her and her horse.”

  “The Arab in your stable?”

  “I thought I might breed thoroughbreds. If you’re interested, come to my stables tomorrow.”

  He nodded eagerly.

  “And Gabriel—”

  “Yeah.”

  “You are never to lift a weapon to me again, but should anyone ever threaten Lady Alethea—”

  “I know what to do.”

  Alethea sighed and turned her head. “Gabriel,” she murmured with a smile. “Did you say something?”

  He felt a rush of protective love and physical longing. “I have to take you home. It’s almost daylight.”

  “Hold me. I don’t want to go.”

  “I don’t want you to, either, but I’m not going to anger your brother again. After breakfast tomorrow I shall go to him and make amends.”

  “He doesn’t understand what happened between us,” she said.

  “I don’t wonder why. But when we all travel back to London to rejoin my family and plan our wedding, I promise to be on my best behavior.”

  She touched his shoulder. She had always loved his dark, swarthy complexion, a combination of the sun and his Bourbon blood. “Do you think your mother will come?”

  “I doubt it. She has apparently married a duc.”

  “A French duke?”

  “So I’ve been told.” He shook his head. “I hear from her only twice a year. She sends me money. I send it back.”

  She wriggled up against his chest. “And your brothers?”

  “I’ve no idea.” He stared out the windows. “They’ve pursued their own lives. If I’d been older I might have gone with them, but—well, I couldn’t leave her with my stepfather.”

  “Would you have come back?”

  “Yes, eventually, but I would never have stayed if not for you.”

  “Would you have loved me if I had become a Cyprian and worked in Mrs. Watson’s house?”

  He realized he would risk her ire no matter what answer he gave so he said the first thing that came to mind, never the wisest course when dealing with a lady.

  “Yes. Every man desires a courtesan for his wife, assuming she’s his courtesan only, and—” He rolled her beneath him, his heavily muscled body pinning her to the bed. “I’ve probably offended you. So I’m not letting you up until you forgive me.”

  Her mouth curved into a grin. “I’m not offended. Intrigued, perhaps.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I would marry you if you became a Prussian hussar.”

  She laughed at him. “It wouldn’t be allowed.”

  “We’d find a way,” he said, easing onto his side. “It’s getting light.” He gazed down broodingly at her bewitching body, flushed from a night in his bed. “Let’s dress before you tempt me again.”

  “Gabriel?” Her voice was soft, thoughtful.

  “Yes?” he asked, bending his head to draw one distended nipple into his mouth.

  “Were you talking to someone when I was asleep?”

  “Yes.” He lifted his head. “To Gabriel.”

  His gaze wandered over her lush breasts and bottom as she rose from his bed. All that satin-peach skin and sensual beauty, his forever. His eyes followed her graceful movements as she reached down on the floor for her stockings. Her untamed hair spilled across the bed, across his thigh.

  “You were talking to yourself?” she asked in amusement, glancing up, her petticoats in her hand.

  He hesitated, glancing at the sword by the door. He’d find a way to tell her later without admitting that her young defender had caught them in bed.

  “In a manner of speaking.” And there was truth in that, for he understood what she had perhaps seen in her foundling. The broken part of himself that had wanted to fight the world. “Were you only attracted to me because I was a wicked boy?” he asked casually, pulling on his buckskin trousers.

  She brushed her hair back from her face, her brown eyes dancing. “As much as you were attracted to me only because I was the perfect lady.”

  It was arranged between Gabriel and Alethea’s brother the following day that the wedding would be held on St. Michaelmas Day in London. When Robin divulged this information to Lady Pontsby, who had been waiting on pins and needles for the announcement, she heaved a sigh of relief that could be heard in the next room, where Alethea sat writing letters to the Boscastle ladies who had befriended her and would become her family.

  “St. Michaelmas Feast?” Lady Pontsby murmured. “The day Lucifer was thrown out of heaven?”

  “If there is a superstition against getting married on that date,” Robin said, “please do not share it with my sister.”

  “The only superstition regarding St. Michaelmas of which I am aware is that one shouldn’t eat blackberries after that day because the devil has spit upon them.”

  “Then let us hope that if there are blackberries served at the wedding breakfast, our devil will be on hand to feed them to his bride.”

  A week passed of gay correspondences sent back and forth among Sir Gabriel, his old friends, and the Boscastles; the earl, his sister Alethea, their friends, and the Boscastle family.

  “Good heavens,” Lady Pontsby said in pleasure at the assortment of letters and small gifts that arrived daily. “One would think she were marrying into an institution.”

  “The Boscastle family is,” Robin said dryly. “And a most infamous one at that.”

  It was further agreed that the week before the wedding would be spent in London fulfilling social obligations and shopping for the bride, whom her older cousin lamented dressed like a country mouse. Alethea pointed out that there would not be time for a proper fitting anyway. But suddenly she did feel unfashionable, remembering the effortless elegance of the Boscastle women she had met.

  She spent the first three days in town with her cousin and Chloe, Viscountess Stratfield, who dragged her from milliner to mantua maker to seamstress with unflagging energy. On the evening of the fourth day she was invited by Jane Bosca
stle, the Marchioness of Sedgecroft, to attend a private family affair.

  Gabriel was invited by one of his former regiment officers to attend a supper party that same night, the purpose to lament the loss of one of London’s rakehells to the parson’s mousetrap.

  Chapter Forty

  The supper party was given in Mayfair at the home of Lord Timothy Powell and his mistress Merry Raeburn, a popular young Drury Lane actress who had once pinned her hopes on claiming Gabriel as her protector. Even though other wealthier, older men had pursued her, she had been infatuated with him for almost a year, far too long for an aspiring courtesan. Allegedly the Duke of Wellington had counted himself as her suitor. Several pamphlets displayed in the windows of a London print ship hinted at a bona fide association. Merry denied these charges, as did the duke. Now she had settled for Timothy, who was neither as handsome nor as exciting as Gabriel Boscastle. Still, he had fought two duels in her honor and he moved in adventuresome circles.

  Now that Gabriel, to everyone’s disbelief, was marrying a lady who seemed to have little interest in the amorous games of Society, Merry’s chances of seducing him seemed quite dim. She managed, however, to entrap him in the hall for a few moments on his way to the upstairs card room.

  “Merry.” He appeared uncomfortably amused to be alone with her. “I was just about to meet Timothy,” he said, with no acknowledgment in his eyes that they had once been on the verge of a love affair. “This is a splendid party, probably my last as a bachelor. I—”

  He was so polite, so formal in contrast to the rogue she had first met, that Merry knew she had lost him forever as a potential protector. Still, her pride would not entirely allow him off the hook. She consoled herself with the possibility that his manly instincts had been damaged at Waterloo. Why else would a rakehell suddenly adhere to standards he had previously flaunted? She believed herself to be at the height of her sexual desirability. She had turned down several offers before Timothy presented her with a generous contract to be her protector. She’d been told that Gabriel was unsurpassed in bed. She wanted him, if only once. He was delicious, a danger that women adored.

  “Are you in love, Gabriel?” she asked softly, the possibility as intriguing to her as it was unlikely she would ever experience such an affliction. A successful courtesan dared not to think in such terms, even if she occasionally slipped into the mistake of caring for one of her admirers. If Gabriel had truly fallen in love with his country lady, Merry and her cohorts had to wonder how it had happened, and how they had missed the chance to capture his elusive heart. None of them had pegged him as a potential husband.

  She positioned herself directly in his path. If he were in the slightest bit tempted to stray, Merry was offering him every incentive. She was slim, barely twenty-one, a well-read young ash-blond beauty who lived to please. “I never imagined we would lose your company,” she added with a sulky sigh. “Do you have to marry her?” she asked, as if his having impregnated an earl’s sister explained the sudden ceremony.

  He laughed. “Yes, I’m in love, and I have to marry her, although for no other reason than that I cannot foresee my life without her. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  She found it impossible to resent his honesty. “In truth, Gabriel, I confess that my curiosity is more piqued than satisfied. I never dreamt you were available for a permanent association.”

  He grinned down into her face. “I wasn’t. In fact, I might have been locked in a pillory all my life, waiting for her to release me.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What a ghastly sentiment. I hope you shan’t turn poetic on us after marriage. You were a more provocative guest as a gambler.”

  “Speaking of which, I am on my way to the card room. Would you care to accompany me? I’m sure Timothy is missing you.”

  “Go yourself. I do not wish to reek of cigars for the rest of the night.”

  He turned. There were no footmen in the hall to guide the wandering guest. “It’s on the left, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said distractedly as a voice called her name from the bottom of the stairs. “The third room from the end—across from my bedchamber, not that you’re interested. The door is open. It’s always open to you.”

  He laughed as she flounced off, glancing back once to give him a hopeful grin. “We could have had a beautiful affair, Gabriel. You’ll never know what you’ve missed.”

  He shook his head and resumed walking down the hall, glancing in amusement into Merry’s lavishly decorated bedchamber.

  The amber satin coverlet had been laid down for the night. Wine and goblets sat upon a tray alongside a platter of crumbly white cheese, biscuits, and raspberry-cream cakes.

  And it did not tempt him at all.

  As he turned back to the hall, he heard the faint shattering of glass, followed by muffled footsteps. Did Merry have a secret admirer lying in wait? One who had lost his temper, or one who had not been invited at all? He counted off the number of guests with whom he had supped. Five had gone with Timothy to play cards. The others had remained belowstairs.

  He walked through the door.

  The window overlooking the alley stood open, a cool breeze ruffling the curtains. He felt a prickle of alertness on his nape. A small jar of some cosmetic lay broken on the wooden floor. Had a gust of wind knocked it from the dressing table? Unlikely, considering the distance.

  He crossed the room and stared down into the alley below. There was another house on the corner being used as a gambling hell. He could see a few well-dressed men playing on the balcony, aristocrats who could afford to lose and who lost often.

  He pivoted from the window and saw the masked figure of a man standing in the door of the dressing closet, watching him.

  But tonight’s entertainment had not been a masquerade.

  “Are you lost, sir?” the man asked him with an air of authority.

  Gabriel stepped around a chair. Something in that deeply resonant voice stirred a nebulous memory. Was this one of the Boscastles playing a trick on his final night of bachelor excesses?

  He suppressed a grin. He deserved to be trumped after all the wicked gambits he’d pulled on his cousins, notably Drake and Devon, who had been invited to the party tonight but had never put in an appearance. If he didn’t watch his back, he’d likely end up in a turnip cart rolled through Piccadilly or at another party attended by every woman and fellow gambler who held a grudge against him.

  The thought of enduring another party made him impatient to see Alethea. His friends would laugh if they knew he’d rather play whist with her than faro with a foreign prince who didn’t give a toss whether he won or surrendered a fortune.

  But he would seem a bad sport if he did not at least pretend to go along with their prank, although he could not yet determine the identity of this masked gentleman-jokester. And that entire conversation with Merry—had it been part of an elaborate scheme to lure him into this room?

  He could only imagine the humiliating consequences if he’d succumbed to her offer. It was the sort of dirty trick he’d play himself.

  He relaxed, staring at the other man.

  Was it his cousin Devon Boscastle, whose short-lived stint as a highwayman who demanded kisses from his female victims had brought him a brief but embarrassing celebrity? He narrowed his eyes.

  Not Devon.

  This man had slightly broader shoulders and a droll mystique about him—as if he were taunting Gabriel to identify him. Perhaps he needed to hear him speak again.

  “Are you lost, sir?” Gabriel asked, coming closer.

  “No,” the stranger replied in amusement. “But as everyone believes I am, I would appreciate it if you did not enlighten them. I assume I can trust you.”

  Gabriel searched his brain to place that voice. “Are you part of a prank to be played on me?”

  “I might have been at one time,” the man answered with a wry smile.

  “Then you are a Boscastle?”

  “Yes. And you are to b
e married soon, I understand.”

  “Are you invited to the wedding?” Gabriel asked casually, trying to lower the man’s guard so he’d continue talking. His mask and hooded cloak made it challenging to put a face to his vaguely familiar manner.

  “Alas, I shall not be able to attend.”

  “You’re coming to play cards now, though?” Gabriel asked in curiosity.

  “Actually, no. I was about to leave.”

  “Through the bedchamber window of your host and hostess? That doesn’t demonstrate very good manners.”

  “I’m not sure that Miss Raeburn has always observed good manners herself. Or so I’ve been told.”

  Gabriel nodded as if he were in on the conspiracy. “What am I in for tonight? You don’t have to spill the whole bowl of soup. I’ll do my best to act like the family nocky boy.”

  A soft footfall echoed outside the room. The man in masquerade looked up sharply. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  A suspicion rose in Gabriel’s mind. Not one of his male cousins. “Dominic?” he guessed. “Chloe’s husband?”

  At the man’s brief hesitation, that buried memory shifted in Gabriel’s mind again. “Are you part of the joke?” he asked directly. “If so you may as well get it over with. I’ll take my stripes like a man.”

  The sibilant whisper of silk behind the door might have gone undetected by men less accustomed to stealing through shadows. As it was the pair of them turned to stare in unison at the disturbance. Gabriel’s initial instinct was to escape. But then he reminded himself that for the first time in over a decade, he’d done nothing that would require him to flee or conceal his presence.

  He was the guest of honor in this house tonight. The presence of the man beside him had not yet been clarified. Perhaps he wasn’t a prankster at all. Perhaps Merry had a penchant for masked gentlemen sneaking about her bedroom. She had a lustful appetite, and suddenly he realized how awkward it would be to explain what he was doing in here.