The Sinful Nights of a Nobleman

by Jillian Hunter

  Grayson glanced at his brother. “That is suitable to me, Devon. Do you object?”

  Devon smiled wryly. “No.” And strangely enough it was true.

  Chapter Seven

  Jocelyn’s father had also requested that the engagement be announced later that night at the party in front of witnesses. Although he would not be present himself, he had asked his son Jason to serve as his proxy. It was obvious he thought a public pledge would bind Devon to his daughter.

  And a hollow pledge it would appear to be.

  It seemed unlikely, in fact, that Devon would visit the salon merely to please Sir Gideon, especially in light of the fact that his friends were upstairs laying odds on how many hours he’d last before he made his escape. He had been absent at dinner, leaving Jocelyn to make excuses for him that no one believed.

  “Perhaps he just needs time to accustom himself to the idea,” Winifred said in a consoling whisper as the two women walked the winding corridor to the salon.

  “Perhaps he needed time to pack his clothes,” Jocelyn replied with a reluctant smile. She picked up the skirt of her pale-pink-and-gold gown and stared ahead at the small crowd already standing at the doors of the salon. The glittering light from the chandelier inside threw a glow of brilliance on the expectant faces.

  She knew immediately that Devon was not among the gathering of guests.

  Perhaps he would not appear at their betrothal announcement. Perhaps the past would repeat itself.

  She would stand like a wooden soldier while her peers toasted her engagement to a man who had ruined her and was now making his feelings about marrying her apparent to everyone.

  Her brother shook his head in an apparent conflux of sympathy and resentment. He said nothing because there really was not much to say. Devon’s absence was painfully eloquent.

  Adam stared at her in burning silence except for an occasional loud sigh that only played on Jocelyn’s already strained nerves. No matter how badly he felt, she was aware that he had made no more mention of offering for her hand. It was for the best. He would never trust her again after what she’d done. She wasn’t sure that she could trust herself.

  Lily did not show, either, but then the bride-to-be had practically attacked her with a battledore and the widow had taken to her bed with a cold compress. Swollen nose notwithstanding, Mrs. Cranleigh’s lack of enthusiasm for this announcement would be understood, even if those attending the party had hoped to witness another conflict between the two women in competition for Devon’s heart.

  After almost two hours dragged by, the guests grew noticeably restless. How disappointing that the drama everyone had anticipated would not come to pass. Had Lord Devon fallen out of love with Jocelyn? Had he loved her to begin with? His failure to share this moment with her suggested he had not.

  Grayson sneaked off to Devon’s room a half-dozen times to fetch him, only to return with a terse smile and a wan joke about this being another of the pranks his brother was known to play.

  Gabriel offered to search the gardens for his missing cousin. Emma quietly assured Jocelyn that Devon would do his duty, but that punctuality had never been his strong point.

  “What is Devon’s strong point?” Grayson heard Gabriel inquire of Emma over his wine goblet.

  She smiled, but her worried gaze strayed to the doorway. “His charm.”

  “Then I should like to see him charm his way out of this coil,” Gabriel muttered.

  Grayson stole a surreptitious glance around the salon. A coil, indeed. Jocelyn was slumping in a chair with a stony expression on her pretty face that said she didn’t give a damn whether his brother had fallen out of love with her or fallen off the face of the earth. Which it appeared he had—he sat up suddenly, recalling how Devon had reacted to past crises. Had he not plunged into a tailspin when their mother and youngest brother had died? Had he not gone off on his horse to ride for hours on end?

  A young wilding himself, Grayson had not particularly paid attention to the woes of his siblings as he was growing up. Now, as the family patriarch, he found himself having to offer guidance when he had only begun to grasp the meaning of his own existence…the mere existence of his wife and son.

  “Excuse me again,” he murmured to the assembly in general. “I shall return with my brother or I shall not come back at all.”

  Three minutes later he was striding across the unfamiliar estate to the paddock and stable. His brother was cantering down the slope in the misty moonlight while Grayson waited, trying not to lose his temper. He understood Devon’s passion for horses, but he didn’t understand his taciturn behavior.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded as Devon finally reined in alongside him, his angular face detached. “Your betrothal was to be announced hours ago.”

  “Didn’t you make excuses for me?” Devon asked, dismounting.

  Grayson folded his arms across his chest. Devon loomed even taller than he, and suddenly Grayson wondered how well anyone knew the dark young devil, or what he would do in Devon’s place.

  “Everyone is in the salon waiting for you. I did not know how to explain—”

  Devon pulled off one of his black riding gloves. “I went to get her a betrothal gift.”

  Grayson threw up his hands. “It’ll have to be one hell of a gift for her to forgive you for this.”

  Devon broke into a grin. “It is. At least I think so.”

  Grayson narrowed his gaze. “Jewels?”

  “Would you expect less of a Boscastle?” His blue eyes dancing, Devon drew a bulky blue velvet pouch from his coat pocket. “You and Drake are the ones who taught me the power of a bauble on the female heart.”

  “What sort of bauble are we discussing?”

  Devon laughed. “A diamond tiara.”

  “A—You’re not bloody serious. Where in Essex would you find a diamond tiara?”

  “Inside the mansion of one of our doting aunts.”

  “You rode all the way to Aunt Catherine of Arrogant’s house to ask for her tiara?”

  “I did.”

  “The tiara she swore to wear at her own funeral?”

  “Well, I didn’t say it was easy.”

  Grayson shook his head in admiration. “You’re the only devil I know who could coax the old battleax to part with her diamonds. What possessed you to think of it in the first place?”

  Devon glanced away. He couldn’t lie to his brother, but he wasn’t about to confess the truth, either. He only understood that Jocelyn had been hurt today, and his instincts had told him, well, he wasn’t sure his instincts had told him to go hunting for a tiara in the middle of nowhere, but that’s what he had done.

  And he felt rather pleased with himself that he’d succeeded.

  “Chloe always used to say that every young lady should have a diamond tiara,” he said, as if that were enough of an explanation.

  Grayson lowered his gaze.

  “Aunt Catherine didn’t happen to have another tiara on hand, did she?”

  Devon hesitated. “Why?”

  “For Chloe,” Grayson said in a subdued voice.

  Devon swallowed. Chloe was their vivacious raven-haired sister who had married Dominic Breckland, Viscount Stratfield, the previous summer. She and Devon had always been close friends, although he had not seen her recently. “It isn’t her birthday,” he said, frowning. “Why would you want to take her a present?”

  “It seems she has lost the child she was carrying. I came to the party, actually, to tell you, but it appeared you had enough problems of your own.”

  “Is she all right?” he asked in concern.

  “I believe so, although she’s not in the best of spirits.”

  Devon shook his head. “I had no idea she was expecting.”

  “Neither did I,” Grayson replied, clearly as distressed as Devon felt at the news. “She’s with Jane now at the country house. We were all supposed to return to London together. If you and Jocelyn do end up marrying at my house, it migh
t take Chloe’s mind off her own troubles.”

  “I’m not certain that getting married will make my troubles go away,” Devon said without thinking.

  Grayson grinned as a groom walked toward them to take the lathered stallion. “After witnessing what damage your bride-to-be can inflict with a battledore, I’m not prepared to disagree.”

  One or two of the older guests had already retired for the evening. Even Lord Fernshaw appeared to accept that Devon would not put in so much as a perfunctory appearance; tactfully he made the suggestion that the party be moved to the conservatory for a soothing moonlight musicale. Perhaps, he told his wife, a violin concerto would ease the evening’s disappointment.

  Jocelyn rose from her high-backed chair. She could not tolerate another minute of this mortifying nonsense.

  “It’s past midnight.” She was painfully aware that several of the more considerate guests had been waiting for her to concede defeat.

  Lady Cordelia Fernshaw, Alton’s young wife, took her by the hand. “Well, I’m famished. We shall have a midnight collation in the conservatory. Alton’s dying to show off his skills on the violin. I advise everyone to bring some lamb’s wool, and pray do not reveal to my husband that I was the one who suggested it.”

  Jocelyn smiled at her in wry gratitude. It was no secret that the midnight collation had been meant to celebrate her engagement to Devon.

  “I’m ravenous myself,” she said. Surprisingly, it was true. There was a strange freedom to be found in being rejected in front of one’s friends. She had survived.

  As if on cue Alton and Gabriel Boscastle stepped forward to offer her their arms. Jocelyn would have laughed at their gallantry if she hadn’t simply wished to make a quiet exit. Adam had shrunk away from her in an apparent effort to distance himself from her continued disgrace. Her brother stood with a helpless look on his face.

  Quite unwillingly she found herself walking with her hand tucked into the crook of Gabriel Boscastle’s arm. The man was a scandal unto himself. But beggars, she supposed, could not be choosers.

  “Keep your head high even if you wish you were dead,” he said in a deep voice.

  She laughed. “I believe my heart is still beating. I don’t wish I were dead, but your cousin…”

  He glanced down at her. She saw a resemblance to Devon in his face, but his was a harder, more careworn countenance. “I know of ways to revive the spirits of a lady who has taken a great fall.”

  She halted, her brow lifting at this remark.

  “Perhaps I should walk alone, after all,” she murmured.

  “Relax, Jocelyn. I only meant to remind you that there are other options available if my cousin fails in his obligation.”

  She studied his rugged face. He was beyond bold. “Are you implying that I become—”

  “My mistress?” He smiled down at her with unabashed amusement. “Are you interested?”

  “I’m too stunned to answer that question,” she replied, tempted to laugh at his audacity. “I cannot believe you would even suggest such an arrangement when I am involved with your own cousin.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps the fact that Devon is my cousin has something to do with my suggestion.”

  “Do you wish to use me as a weapon?”

  “A weapon? No. You’re a prize to be won, not a weapon.” He paused. “As a matter of fact, I find I’m rather fond of my cousins.”

  She glanced up suddenly.

  A deep hush had descended over the salon.

  Jocelyn shivered in awareness before she even turned to discern the cause. “I will walk by myself, Sir Gabriel,” she said carefully.

  “No, you won’t,” a baritone voice said from behind her. “Thank you for keeping an eye on her, Gabriel. How good to know that I can count on your decency in my absence.”

  Her pulse quickened as she turned to stare up into Devon’s dark, saturnine face. Despite his offer, she realized that he was not looking at her at all; he and Gabriel seemed to be engaged in a silent clash of wills that sent a shiver down her arms.

  It seemed quite clear that their rivalry had not flared up merely because Gabriel had been caught at her side, although she was not entirely sure from whence stemmed this discord. Did it concern Lily Cranleigh? Winifred had informed her of the wager between the two men.

  She felt a little like a princess caught in the warring fire of two great dragons. But then Gabriel shrugged and stepped away with a low, amused laugh. The dark tension eased from Devon’s face.

  The dangerous impulses that had charged the air suddenly diffused. What did Devon expect when he’d all but abandoned her, anyway?

  “I do have an excuse,” he said with the briefest glance at her brother. “Whether it is good enough or not to merit a pardon will be for Jocelyn to decide.”

  She slanted him a cynical look as he raised his hand to hold before her a blue velvet pouch. The party guests closed in a circle around them, curiosity overwhelming the courtesy of allowing him to gain a private exoneration. She was curious herself.

  “What is it?” she asked, biting the inside of her cheek.

  Devon’s voice was velvet nonchalance. “A bauble to beg your pardon.”

  “A what?” she asked.

  From the corner of her eye she noticed his brother Grayson standing at the door. He raised his brow at Devon. “Don’t be modest, Dev. That is a most expensive bauble.”

  “Am I going to see it to decide for myself?” Jocelyn asked drily.

  Devon grinned. “Of course. Hold out your hands.”

  She pursed her lips in suspicion, then obeyed. He emptied the contents of the pouch into her gloved palms. There was a collective gasp of awe from the guests crowded around them.

  Jocelyn stared at Devon, not in a mood to be impressed. Why would he think her a woman to be bought with baubles? she wondered.

  She had never been impressed much with trinkets in the past. Why would she start now?

  But that question came before she looked down at her hand to discover the devil’s temptation glittering in the form of the most exquisite diamond tiara she had ever had the joy to behold. Its delicate stones radiated fire from every facet set upon a beautifully wrought gold band. In truth, his gift did make her feel like a princess. A disgraced one, but a princess nonetheless.

  “How did you know I have always wanted my own tiara?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  He shrugged. She glanced up and suddenly noticed the tiny drops of mist that shimmered in his hair. Her gaze descended. There was a smudge of mud on the top of his left boot.

  How on earth had he contrived to purchase a tiara of this quality in the sleepy Essex countryside? True, the Boscastles wielded both power and persuasive charm that people could not resist, but…

  No man of her acquaintance had ever fought a duel over Jocelyn, or lavished her with such shocking extravagance. No one had singled her out before or paid her this much attention. She was not quite sure how to react, or what Devon expected her to say.

  She stared directly into his eyes. His unwavering gaze increased her heartbeat and for a breathless moment she thought he might see something inside her she could not perceive herself. She had convinced herself he would not show up tonight. She had certainly not expected a present like this.

  “How did you find this in so brief a period?”

  “Is it to your liking?” he asked as if his very existence hinged on her answer.

  Artful rogue. She would be stamped petulant by posterity if she denied him her appreciation. And, indeed, the act, no matter what motives had inspired it, did stir her gratitude. Truthfully, she was overwhelmed.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever owned.”

  He broke into a grin at her response. She could have sworn she heard his brother Grayson sigh in relief. And if only for tonight she wanted to believe that their marriage was not merely the end result of a masquerade, but something more.

  Chapter Eight

  Devon remained a
t her side while her brother announced the betrothal of his sister to one of London’s most eligible noblemen. The hopeful debutantes present whispered that their hearts were broken over the loss of their blue-eyed scoundrel. Devon’s assorted group of male friends appeared subdued by the official announcement. He ignored both camps and concentrated on paying attention to Jocelyn. It was an easier duty than he’d expected.

  It certainly did not hurt her cause that she’d responded to him so passionately when they’d met in the tower. Remembering the soft pleasure of her body sent a keen desire knifing down his spine. And he wanted more. The smile that curved his finely molded mouth as congratulations broke out around him came more easily than he expected.

  He turned to place his arm around her waist. “Perhaps you should kiss me to celebrate our betrothal.”

  “Not in front of everyone,” she said faintly.

  But he kissed her anyway. His hard warm hand slid up her shoulder to her nape, and his fingers tightened there as he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her as if there was not another person in the world.

  He’d meant it to be only a symbolic embrace, nothing more. But then he felt her hand press against his chest. He heard the deep sigh that escaped her, and an unfamiliar ache took hold of his heart.

  “There.” He withdrew without warning, his hand drifting down her back.

  She lifted her dark gaze to his. Something fierce stirred inside him. Unbridled desire, the duty to protect—those he understood. What puzzled him was the undefinable emotion that he felt when he was with her.

  He drew his hand to his side. She smiled but did not move, murmuring, “I suppose you think you just proved something by that display.”

  And he had.

  She could not deceive him, although he silently applauded her ability to dissemble. He recognized a woman’s desire when he’d aroused it; he’d felt the sexual heat that ignited between them. His blood warmed in anticipation of what other fires he might awaken in her luscious body.