The Sinful Nights of a Nobleman

by Jillian Hunter

  “I did not—”

  The door opened. It wasn’t a footman. It was far worse. Jocelyn’s brother appeared before them, a candle in hand. He glanced from his sister’s grave countenance to Devon, who strove to present himself as…as an innocent bystander?

  He grimaced inwardly. As if such a stance were remotely possible, or even true. Whether Devon cared to admit it or not, he had known that those had not been Lily’s overlarge, over-scented breasts he’d kissed with unforgivable ardor during what had suddenly begun to feel like a lifetime ago.

  Another life. His past life. Well, there was nothing to be done for it.

  “This,” Jason announced when it seemed he had found the voice to underscore his look of shock, “is even worse than what I had imagined.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” Devon asked.

  Jason shook his head in bewilderment. “I had deceived myself into believing that even you were more principled than this, Devon. As for you, Jocelyn. I can only say that I have never felt such shame.”

  “Who told you where to find me?” she asked in a clipped voice.

  “Never mind that. It’s not something I wish to discuss with either of you.”

  “Why the bloody hell not?” Devon demanded. “I insist that you at least enlighten me, as I seem to be in the dark.”

  “You’re not in a position to be insisting on anything,” Jason said with disdain, then apparently reconsidered and reached into his vest pocket to produce, with dramatic flourish, the folded paper that bore a suspicious resemblance to the one Devon had received earlier in the evening.

  “Voilà,” Jason said in a tight voice.

  “Voilà what?” Devon asked in annoyance.

  “You wrote this invitation to your rendezvous, didn’t you? I discovered it on my sister’s dressing table.”

  “I didn’t write anything,” Devon replied, his voice unrepentant. “I was the one invited here, if the truth be told.”

  Jason stole a glance at his sister. “Jocelyn, perhaps you could explain this disturbing situation.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She hazarded an indignant look in Devon’s direction.

  He would have laughed had he not had a sense of how this would end. He knew how it must look. The only thing obvious, unfortunately, was Jocelyn’s vaguely tousled and all-too-tempting appearance.

  And Devon’s cloak. Lord love him, she was standing in the middle of it, and any attempt to retrieve it on his part would only serve to justify Jason’s concerns—as justifiable as those concerns were. Even if Devon had not invited her to meet him, he’d have been perfectly willing to continue their encounter had they not been interrupted. She’d made him absolutely wild, out of his senses.

  “I was misled into coming here,” she said. She sounded so believable that Devon was grudgingly forced to concede that they had most likely both been deceived.

  “It appears the two of us were misled,” he said darkly.

  She gave a huff of breath.

  “All I know,” she continued, “is that I was given to believe I was meeting Adam in the tower.”

  Devon rubbed his face. God, he’d been seducing her, and she’d thought he was Chiswick?

  Jason acknowledged this statement with a cynical shrug. “Except that Adam is not here. He is, in fact, at this very distressing moment leading a search for you throughout the castle.”

  “And all I know,” Devon interjected, feeling more compelled by the minute to defend himself, “was that I was led to believe I was meeting Mrs. Cranleigh.”

  “Who also is not present,” Jason murmured, his brow creased in speculation. “Be that as it may, however, it does not explain why Jocelyn is standing upon your cloak, Boscastle. The male mind leaps to a rather unsavory conclusion.”

  There ensued a stretch of bleak silence that might have extended even longer had not a commotion arisen from behind the partially opened door.

  Voices resounded from the tower stairs, voices babbling in concern, in excitement. A veritable Tower of Babel, Devon thought, and futilely wished for a large goblet of wine, preferably laced with some swift but gentle-acting poison, and a bench to collapse upon so that he could meet his demise in comfort.

  But the Fates, whose benevolence Devon had taken for granted until this night, seemed to have withdrawn their favor, for one masculine voice predominated. Devon did not immediately identify it, although Jocelyn and her brother appeared to respond all too clearly. Their faces reflected a mutual horror that brought to his mind those friends who, during the war, had survived death and sworn that at the crucial moment, various scenes from their lives had passed before their eyes like the acts of a play.

  Indeed, as the door was pushed fully open, Devon thought the tableau bore all the markings of a Shakespearean tragedy. Or comedy. Or both.

  Sir Gideon Lydbury approached his daughter in utter silence. He was a handsome man, silver-haired, his trim body betraying little effects of his age. He did not raise his voice in anger. He did not curse, which Devon might have mistaken as an encouraging sign had he not sensed otherwise.

  “I might have expected to find you involved, Boscastle.”

  Devon unflinchingly returned his stare. “Then I wish you had warned me in advance. I had no premonition of this myself.”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” Jocelyn said. “We did not meet—”

  Sir Gideon turned, his hand upraised to strike her, and something broke inside Devon. Discipline was one thing, and his own sire had certainly never spared Devon’s back the rod. But to hit a woman in rage, well, it made him want to hit someone himself.

  Unfortunately, that someone happened to be Jocelyn’s father, who most likely thought his action merited. Suddenly it seemed irrelevant to Devon how he or Jocelyn had become ensnared in this situation. He might waver back and forth over believing her claim of complete innocence. Perhaps she was pulling a prank because—He couldn’t think of a strong enough reason she would play this game unless she sought revenge for a past insult.

  But a calculated vengeance of this nature after so many years seemed not only implausible but more underhanded than he could fairly attribute to her. Even if she had willfully befooled him, she was still a member of the weaker sex, and his natural instincts to defend her overwhelmed his less worthy proclivities.

  “Don’t touch her.” He blocked the older man’s hand with his right arm and raised his left to shield Jocelyn’s face from the impending blow.

  Not that she appreciated the gesture. She dealt his arm a good shove off to the side and swung around him to confront her father, although the quiver in her voice made him doubt that this was the first time she’d had to defend herself against abuse. Her brother, he noticed, did nothing to protect her.

  “Would you punish me before others?” she asked, a question that prompted Devon to wonder how far her father’s reputation for corporal punishment extended beyond disciplining soldiers. He waited for her to ask him to intervene.

  Sir Gideon slowly lowered his hand, ignoring her to glare at Devon. “I interpret your action in thwarting me as not only an admission of guilt, but as one of accepting responsibility.”

  The strange glow of triumph in his eyes refreshed Devon’s earlier suspicion that Gideon had set this trap. But…no, it still did not make sense. This whole plot reeked of a more personal reprisal.

  He lifted his head and answered with austere resignation. “It was my fault. I deceived her into thinking there was to be a treasure hunt in the tower.”

  Jocelyn stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. And he probably had. “A treasure hunt?”

  “Kindly do not interrupt me, darling,” Devon said without looking at her again. “I will not shirk whatever responsibility befalls me.”

  Sir Gideon nodded. “Then I will make the arrangements for your wedding.”

  Chapter Five

  Jocelyn felt as if she had been turned to stone. Surely her legs would not move if she lifted them and attempted to escape.
Her father, here. How? Why? When had he arrived? When had he ever deigned to attend a party not hosted by a political ally?

  Who had masterminded this conspiracy?

  Her thoughts came to a sudden halt as Adam walked into the tower and gazed upon her in wounded condemnation. Adam. Her Adam. Oh, the fool. Would he deny that he had sent her that note? Yes, if, as she had begun to realize, he had not sent it at all. Would he be quick-witted enough to defend her anyway, or would he allow her to suffer her disgrace alone?

  Not exactly alone, she thought with a shiver, stealing a sidelong look at Devon, even if she could meet his gaze. She and that beautiful black-haired devil were embroiled in this together—whatever this might be. At least Devon had had the decency to stand up to her father’s intimidation, although decency was not how she would have described Devon’s actions of a few minutes earlier.

  Or her own.

  Her heart still clamored inside her breast from his shameless kisses. She understood too well now why young women dreamed of being a Boscastle bride. She knew why they went to ridiculous lengths to capture a moment of Devon’s undivided attention in the park, or at parties. His fame as a libertine and superb lover seemed not to be exaggerated. She was afraid to think of what might have happened had her brother not arrived to save her from herself.

  However, she’d never aspired to become a rakehell’s lover. She’d meant to marry a respectable man, and that man was certainly not Devon, even if she’d wished for him long ago. Apparently, she wasn’t alone in her consternation; he looked even more unhappy about being caught than she did.

  Then how had this happened? Had this tryst been one of his wild wagers? Were his friends laughing themselves sick over how it had ended? And how would it end?

  “Jocelyn,” Adam said, shaking his head as if he had awakened from a dream, “I just don’t understand. How did this come about?”

  “I don’t know,” she said miserably, meeting his bewildered look. “I thought I was meeting you here.”

  “Meeting me? In the tower. Why would I invite you to this desolate spot?”

  “I thought…I thought you were going to propose to me.”

  “In the tower? Good God.”

  It was evident that he would not find the wherewithal to rescue her from this disgrace. Nor could she lay all the blame at Devon Boscastle’s door, as much as she might wish to. No one had forced her to come to the tower. No one had forced her to respond to Devon’s kisses.

  He told her father that he would marry her, but surely he would change his mind. In the heat of the moment he had defended her. By tomorrow he would have reconsidered.

  She, as a woman, would never be able to escape the consequences.

  And if she understood the cruel underpinnings of Society at all, those consequences would be the swift execution of her dreams.

  Devon’s face darkened as he discovered his cousin Gabriel standing outside the tower door, and with him one of Jocelyn’s closest friends, Lady Winifred Waterstone. If he’d harbored any hopes for quiet settlement, he had to relinquish them. Witnesses would surely seal his fate.

  He brushed around his cousin. “Your interference is not welcome, Gabriel.”

  Gabriel glanced up shrewdly at the tower door. “I came to help. It would seem as if you need it.”

  But Devon was in no mood to be moved by a show of concern. In fact, now that he was removed enough from the situation for reflection, he thought it unlikely that Jocelyn or her father had been involved in his entrapment. It crossed his mind, however, to attribute a conspiracy of this nature to a proven malfeasant such as his cousin. Had he not been warned by his brothers that Gabriel wasn’t to be trusted?

  “Please tell me that you did not arrange this tryst, Gabriel,” he said slowly, searching his cousin’s face. “Or that it was your idea of a joke.”

  Why else had Gabriel been so assured of making a conquest of Mrs. Cranleigh? His suspicions mounting, he remembered that it had been Gabriel who had taken Drake’s governess-bride to a brothel before their marriage in the hope of stirring up mischief for no discernible purpose.

  Gabriel shook his head again. “I came here to help, that’s all.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I followed Jocelyn’s father. He and Adam were on a witch hunt when it seemed she had disappeared. All I knew was that your name was mentioned, and I could not locate you.”

  “And you know why now.”

  “You found the debutante more to your taste?” Gabriel hesitated. “I admit she’s worth a second glance—”

  Devon gave him a cynical smile. “More than a second glance, I’m afraid. Her life is ruined, Gabriel, whether I marry or abandon her.”

  “I am a Boscastle, too, Devon. Let me try to help—”

  Devon glanced up. “We can discuss this later. This isn’t the time.”

  What had been done had been done. Even if he had been tricked, no one had forced him to feel what he had felt when he’d held Jocelyn in his arms. No one had made his bones ache with desire and befuddled his brain so that for a few irrevocable moments nothing in the world had mattered but possessing her.

  And now, for better or worse, he would.

  It was, of course, impossible for Devon to sleep that night. He could either accept the hand that had been dealt him or seek to unmask whoever had contrived to dishonor him. He had no known enemies. He gave offense to few men unless it was deserved.

  Which reminded him that he had been unfair in accusing Gabriel and owed his cousin an apology. He left his chamber, resolved to make amends.

  Gabriel’s room was located at the far end of the hallway above the castle’s long window-lined gallery. As there was no footman in sight, he took the liberty of knocking quietly, then letting himself inside when there was no reply.

  A beeswax candle burned low on the nightstand. With a wry smile he stood with his back to the wall and waited for the naked man and woman entwined on the bed to disentangle and dress.

  The man did not bother. Rolling onto his side, he trained a pistol in Devon’s direction and sprang nude from the side of the lush redhead who was still sprawled in a daze on the bed.

  “Jesus God,” Gabriel said in irritation. “I almost shot you, Devon.”

  Devon watched the woman’s white bottom disappear over the other side of the bed. “Good evening, Lily. I hope I haven’t caught you at an awkward moment.”

  She cursed from the floor and wrenched the silk coverlet out from under Gabriel’s arse.

  “Did I come at an inconvenient time?” Devon inquired in amusement.

  Gabriel rose and strode without the least sign of inhibition to the dressing screen. His mouth set in a resigned smile, he gathered Lily’s clothing into his hand and tossed it to her huddled form.

  “Here, Lily. We wouldn’t want you to catch a nasty cold.”

  She pulled on her gown and rose. “You’re both bastards, you know. It’s in the blood.”

  Devon lifted his brow, allowing her to squeeze around him. “It’s a damned nuisance getting caught, darling.”

  The door closed with a decisive click, and he turned his attention back to Gabriel’s shadowed form.

  “You won the wager. Congratulations.”

  Gabriel lit a cigar and laughed. “I was about to win it just as you barged in.”

  Devon grinned. “Bad timing?”

  “For both of us it would appear.” Gabriel released a sigh. “Let me assure you again I had nothing to do with what happened tonight.”

  “I suppose you’re going to deny that Lily was in your bed, too?” Devon asked drily.

  “That’s different. We had a wager. You and I both know that she and Jocelyn are different.”

  “I don’t know Jocelyn at all, if you want to know the truth.”

  Gabriel shook his head in sympathy. “It’s the Devil’s luck what happened to you tonight. I’m not certain I’d have handled myself as well as you did.”

  Devon backed into
the door. It was almost dawn. “I suppose it remains to be seen how well I’ll deal with what comes next.”

  “I might be gone by morning if I were you.”

  He hesitated. “Perhaps I will be.”

  But he knew he wouldn’t, and not merely for honor or because he’d given his word. Even now the memory of Jocelyn beat in his blood, sparked a heated anticipation inside him that defied reason. Sweet, slightly wicked. Soft brown eyes and a father who would not forgive her for what she had done.

  He would not be gone in the morning. He was a man who faced whatever was thrown in his path.

  Jocelyn awakened to the sound of pigeons gathered on her windowsill. She sat up and stared at the mask she had dropped on her dressing table. What was the point in hoping that last night had been a dream? She had not slept enough to even pretend to deceive herself. Her father’s parting words had haunted her throughout the night.

  “You will accept the consequences of your misconduct with grace and integrity.”

  He had left the estate before the other guests had even been alerted of his presence. His discretion notwithstanding, Jocelyn was fully aware what the topic of gossip would be at the breakfast tables, although perhaps by now Devon would have fled, and Jocelyn would be left alone to suffer the ensuing scandal.

  She sank back onto the bed, wondering how long she could hide in this room before she would be forced to emerge. Perhaps an hour passed as she pondered her immediate future. Her stomach growled with hunger, and it was barely past dawn. Never having denied herself a single meal in her memory, it soon became obvious that she could not languish indefinitely. Sooner or later she would have to face Society.

  And Devon.

  A slow flush of heat washed over her body. How could she ever have known she could be rendered so helpless by a man’s touch? Her first taste of passion.

  The worst part wasn’t that she had submitted to him so easily. The worst part was that she had wanted more. Ached deeply for a full awareness of what he had awakened.

  And Devon had known. He lived and breathed seduction. He had a sorcerer’s power when it came to pleasure.