The Sinful Nights of a Nobleman

by Jillian Hunter

  He’d found her bare-arsed under the covers with his cousin, and while he couldn’t honestly say he’d been surprised, it hadn’t occurred to him at the time to assess the size of her nose. He didn’t care whether he lost a bet or not, either; she wasn’t worth his trouble.

  What bothered him at the moment was the conversation he’d just overheard between Jocelyn and Adam. The pair of innocents had been completely unaware that he’d been listening to them behind the trees before circling back onto the proper path.

  At first he’d thought their encounter was amusing. But something in the furtive tone of their conversation had provoked him, and it was still provoking him now. It wasn’t that Adam had been considering challenging him to a duel—Devon understood male honor. What irritated him was that Jocelyn had tried to soothe the paperskull.

  Perhaps he should have encouraged Adam to elope with her. It would have solved all of Devon’s problems. He could even have pretended to be heartbroken in the wake of their elopement. Well, perhaps that would be taking a reaction too far. No one would believe a woman had broken his heart.

  But he had to admit if only to himself that he wasn’t wholly unaffected by her, either. No one had forced him to gallop off into the hills to beg his elderly aunt for her prized tiara. Or to stay at Jocelyn’s side almost the entire night. To his surprise he had not wanted to leave her.

  True, he was being coerced into this marriage, but he wouldn’t need any prompting to take her to his bed. He wanted her more every time he saw her. In fact, it had become a challenge to subdue his sexual response to her allure. Considering her inexperience, he would take special care to seduce her.

  Hell, he wasn’t fooling himself. He was dying to bed her, and when the time came he’d be damned lucky if he could resist her for the few moments it would take them to undress. He knew she didn’t do it on purpose, but in a subtle but disconcerting way, she beguiled him.

  Why else had he spent the last hour or so exploring the castle grounds in the hope of finding her? And while he was nonchalantly trying to pretend he wasn’t searching for her, she had been alone with Adam.

  He stopped and swore aloud. The way the pair of them had jumped apart when he revealed his presence had not only annoyed him, it had made him feel like some dark villain in a fairy tale who had stolen a princess from her true love.

  Devon had never played a villainous part in anyone’s life before. But who knew? Perhaps he possessed an untapped talent for evil. He certainly did not feel the least bit heroic at the moment.

  “Devon!”

  He half-turned at the shout, not moving a muscle as Gabriel slowed his cantering horse to a walk. In Devon’s current mood he was liable to clobber his swaggering cousin.

  “You’re late to the practice, Sleeping Beauty,” Gabriel said, casting a glance at Lily. “Come on. I have need of a target.”

  Devon hooked one arm over the ring. “I’m amazed you have the strength to even rise this morning, let alone sit on a horse,” he said with a droll smile.

  Gabriel flashed him a rude grin. “My stamina is remarkable.”

  “We shall find out how remarkable it is during the tournament,” Devon retorted, grinning back at him. “Funny, I had no idea Fernshaw was allowing peasants to participate in this year’s pageant. Haven’t you been assigned to dung-sweeping?”

  “Do you want me to sweep you up?”

  Devon laughed. “Who are you jousting against, anyway?”

  Gabriel dismounted and tossed his reins to one of the grooms. “Perhaps you should pay more attention to your competition.”

  “Why?” Devon had not only served as a cavalry officer, but had won every joust he’d ever fought in Fernshaw’s tournaments. “No one has ever beat me.”

  “Perhaps your luck has changed.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t luck.” Devon vaulted over the railing, suddenly in the mood for the physical outlet his cousin had tauntingly offered.

  “I must confess one thing,” Gabriel said, walking beside him. “It was not by invitation that Lily came to my room last night. I know you and I had made a bet, but I decided that you did not need to have your loss of freedom thrown in your face. Apparently, she desired me all on her own.”

  Devon laughed again. “If that was an apology, it’s already forgotten.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “I wasn’t apologizing. I only told you so that when I vanquish you tomorrow, you will understand that it has nothing to do with a woman.”

  “Gabriel, when I knock your arrogant head off your shoulders, you can rest assured that Lily will be the last thing on my mind.”

  Gabriel waited several moments before responding. “What if it had been Jocelyn in my bed?”

  Devon aimed a mock swing at his head. “You really do want to be taken down a peg, don’t you?”

  “If anyone bests me, Devon, let it be you.”

  Devon smiled reluctantly.

  Gabriel lowered his voice. “I found out last night that the coffin had been stolen, not sold.”

  “I’d expected as much.”

  “And,” Gabriel continued, “if anyone in the castle knows who’s behind it, they’re keeping it a secret.”

  “Now isn’t this a sight to warm the cockles of my cold heart?” a voice drawled behind them. “Dare we hope this chill in the air between the two cousins portends bloodshed? It’s about time.”

  Devon glanced around. Captain Thurlew and a group of his friends strolled across the lists bearing broomsticks and blunted lances on their shoulders. “What the devil are the broomsticks for?” Devon demanded in amusement. “To sweep opponents off the field?”

  “Don’t you know?” Gabriel asked with a grin. “We’re jousting the first event with broomsticks. Fernshaw is afraid the amateur guests might hurt themselves.”

  “In that case”—Devon snatched one of the brooms out from under Thurlew’s arm—“you ought to start practicing. En garde.”

  Gabriel ducked, then caught the broomstick that his groom had procured and thrown him. “That’s more like it,” he said, laughing, and swung at Devon’s torso.

  Devon sidestepped with agile grace and dealt his own blow, catching Gabriel on the thigh. Gabriel merely grinned.

  “That’s getting a little too close to home. Do you mind keeping your broomstick away from my stones?”

  “My apologies,” Devon said, laughing. “I didn’t know that you had any.”

  “Ask Lily.”

  “No, thanks.”

  A crowd had gathered. Devon noted that Lily had risen to her feet, presumably hoping for a violent display. Adam stood a few feet behind her, but Jocelyn was not in his company. Had she taken his advice to return to the castle? Had she and Adam made an arrangement to meet in secret later—

  “Hell.” A dull thud across his elbow brought his attention back to his battle with Gabriel.

  “Sorry,” Gabriel said with an insincere shrug. “I do hope that wasn’t your sword arm. But perhaps you ought to pay more attention to what an amateur can do.”

  Come storm or sunshine, Lord Alton Fernshaw’s annual tournament would be held.

  By dawn the last shred of fairy mist had evaporated from the jousting grounds. The wooden seats overflowed with sleepy but excited spectators eager to witness chivalry relived. Or, if chivalry failed, as it often did in such circumstances, one could secretly hope to witness a genuine fight break out among the competitors.

  This year, owing to the unanticipated scandal that surrounded two of Society’s most charismatic gentlemen, there seemed to be a decent chance that these bloodthirsty expectations would be met.

  To this end, bets had been privately placed on a personal battle between the two Boscastle cousins. Gabriel was nursing a thick lip from his practice with Devon the previous day, a defect that only made him more attractive to his female admirers. Devon wore a distracted expression so unlike his usual devil-may-care countenance that his smitten followers ached to offer him comfort.

  Those wagerin
g on Devon did so on the basis of his calvary skills and daring temperament. He was young, tough, and wild at heart. Gabriel seemed a little stronger, rougher around the edges. His supporters claimed that as a Boscastle outcast, he had nothing to lose.

  The true question of the day, however, was which lady had fueled this rivalry?

  The previously untarnished Miss Lydbury, or the disreputable but desirable Lily Cranleigh?

  Would both women appear?

  Wagers were being placed on this matter also, with Lily taking the lead, and a few gamblers remarking that Jocelyn had not been seen at the practices.

  Jocelyn would not have missed the spectacle for anything; she had renewed her resolve to accept her fate. After all, she had come to Alton’s party in the hope of a marriage proposal. Never mind that Devon Boscastle was a far cry from the respectable husband she’d had in mind. Sometimes the best-laid plans held a few surprises.

  She and Lady Winifred took their seats while minstrels wandered about reciting poetry and serenading the damsels in the stands with the timeless love songs of thirteenth-century troubadours.

  All those who attended came in costume. Jocelyn wore a bliaud, an overtunic of flowing violet silk with a gold-linked girdle that hung low on her hips.

  After much fanfare Lord Fernshaw appeared and strode to his canopied dais.

  The jousting rules were announced, the participants reminded that all weapons had been blunted in the friendly spirit of the tournament. The knight of honor severed the cords to the lists, and a herald shouted, “Laissez-aller!”

  The tournament had begun.

  It promised to be an entertaining event.

  The grand prize to be awarded the winner of this year’s tournament was an Andalusian blood stallion.

  There wasn’t a combatant on the field who did not covet the horse for his own stable. Or to merely ride on Rotten Row to impress the ladies of London.

  Resplendent in his knightly attire, Devon Boscastle easily cut the most impressive figure of the day as he crossed the arena astride his spirited destrier. Beneath a peacock-blue satin jupon he wore a silver-mesh hauberk, and his blue eyes glistened with diabolical intent through the visor of his steel helmet. He commanded his horse with a masterful ease that sent flutters through more than one lady in the audience.

  Jocelyn watched him enter the arena, then looked away, her heart thundering unaccountably. If he acknowledged Lily instead of her, she would probably challenge him to a joust herself. It seemed a logical leap in madness from attacking one’s rival with a battledore. She knew he hadn’t liked finding her with Adam. But Adam was as comfortable as an old chair; Devon wasn’t comfortable at all. He made her feel breathless, awkward, and painfully naïve.

  “Jocelyn,” Winifred whispered.

  “Do not tell me he is making a spectacle of himself in front of that woman again.”

  “No. But he is making a spectacle of himself in front of you. A quite handsome one, I have to say.”

  “Don’t tease me. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Jocelyn.” Winifred gave her a sharp elbow in the side, then stared pointedly in the arena.

  Jocelyn turned her head. Directly below them Devon sat elegantly astride his dancing charger, a handsome sight even if she hated to admit it.

  “A favor from you, fairest of all ladies, to carry with me into battle,” he called playfully, one gauntleted hand extended in supplication.

  She swallowed, telling herself she would not melt into a puddle over a pretty gesture. “What am I supposed to give him?” she whispered to Winifred.

  “A shoe?”

  “My shoe?”

  “Well, then, a garter.”

  “I am not giving him a garter.”

  “Everyone here thinks you’ve given him far more than that.”

  Jocelyn blushed, then untied the silk belt attached to the gold-linked girdle that was a rather uncomfortable part of her costume. She tossed it into the air. Devon caught it on the tip of his lance and made a show of kissing it before he prompted his horse into a bow to salute her.

  “What a chivalrous act,” Winifred exclaimed, clapping her hands.

  Jocelyn tried not to smile. “What an actor, you mean.”

  “Well, if that’s an act, I should like to be in his play. Oh, goodness, is that Sir Gabriel he’s fighting?”

  The other combatant had just entered the arena on a massive gray warhorse. A black-plumed heaume concealed his face, but he sat in the embroidered saddle with an arrogance that made him easy to identify. He rode over to the stands to ask a favor of Lily Cranleigh, who lifted her knee and threw him her garter without any hesitation at all.

  But Devon had paid her the honor, and even though she told herself it was probably nothing more than a token tribute, she felt pleased all the same. It might only be for show. He might no more be her champion at heart than she was a princess, diamond tiara notwithstanding.

  She realized she’d captured him by default. For all she knew, or didn’t want to know, he was still competing for Lily’s attention behind closed doors. But if he could pretend in public to be a devoted fiancé, then it really only seemed right that she should do the same. The odd thing was how easy it was for her to pretend devotion to the rogue.

  Devon urged his destrier into an easy gait as the cords were severed. He and his cousin cantered toward each other in a swirling veil of dirt kicked up by flying hooves. Gabriel was an impressive figure, the bastard, on his thundering gray horse.

  But Devon had been born a horseman. His lanky, angular build lent itself more to agility and speed than his cousin’s rugged strength.

  He carried a heavy blunted lance in his left hand and aimed for the center of Gabriel’s oncoming shield. If he struck with ample force, he would unhorse but hopefully not injure him.

  His aim struck true.

  Unfortunately, Gabriel sat firm on the saddle like the bravehearted guttersnipe he was, his padded shield absorbing the blow.

  “Come on, cousin,” Gabriel taunted as he wheeled his horse around for the next course. “Don’t take your loss to heart. All the girls know Lord Devon would rather excel in the bedroom than on the battlefield.”

  Devon backed up his destrier with a skill that came as second nature. He could ride circles around Gabriel in his sleep. “I haven’t heard any tales of your bravery fighting battles.”

  “That’s because the men I fought are dead and cannot talk,” Gabriel shouted over his shoulder. “It’s only a game, isn’t it?”

  It was only a game, but Devon didn’t give a damn. He’d lost sight of that fact the moment he’d looked up and sighted Jocelyn. He wouldn’t exactly impress her if he lost. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he and Gabriel reentered the arena in an easy canter that belied their rivalry.

  Game or not, he was going to win.

  But this time…this time…

  He rode firmly entrenched in the saddle, positioning his arm while Gabriel’s horse thundered toward him. His concentration paid off. A few moments after his lance struck a shattering blow to Gabriel’s shield, his cousin was jolted out of the saddle and hurled backward to the ground. The victory scored the winning atteint.

  The spectators roared in approval. Someone tossed an ivy wreath into the arena. The heralds trumpeted, announcing Lord Devon to be winner. He had only two more events to win.

  He stared down at his cousin in amusement. “That ought to take care of your gloating for a day or two.”

  Gabriel rolled onto his feet and wrenched off his helmet. “You ought to be grateful.”

  “Grateful?” Devon snorted. Rivulets of sweat were running down the sides of his nose band. “What for?”

  Gabriel grinned. “Because I let you win so that you would not be disgraced in front of your fiancée.”

  Devon threw back his head and laughed. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  Gabriel pretended to look hurt. “I sacrifice my pride, and you laugh at me?”

  “Do you know
what I think, Gabriel? I think you’re a poor loser. There isn’t a sacrificing bone in your body.”

  Gabriel didn’t deny it, either.

  Devon rode straight to the stands, dismounted, and bowed low to Jocelyn. She gazed down at him for several seconds as if she weren’t sure what to say.

  He did know that for some inexplicable reason he’d felt compelled to beat his cousin, and presumably it had been more a matter of male pride than of wanting to win a fine horse. Jocelyn, however, did not appear to look like a woman overly impressed by his tourneying skills.

  Gabriel strode up behind him and slapped him on the shoulder, murmuring, “I’d make the most of this if I were you. Ask her to kiss your lance.”

  “I’ll give you something to kiss.”

  Jocelyn rose from the cushioned bench. Devon could feel his cousin’s attention drawn immediately to her willowy form, and fresh annoyance flared through his fatigue. She cleared her throat. Lady Fernshaw was standing beside her, prompting her what to say. “Lord Devon,” she began awkwardly, “your bravery has been—”

  Has been what? he wondered irritably. A waste of time? His gaze drifted from her face to her figure again. That medieval costume molded to her body as if to caress her every curve. It made him want to take her somewhere private and undress her. Strange that a few seconds ago he’d been aching all over and surly. Now he still ached, but it was a deeper, more familiar discontent. The discontent of raw desire.

  He shook his head and tried to focus on what she was saying rather than on what he’d like to do with her when they were alone. Suddenly he realized she’d stopped speaking and was staring past him into the arena. Was Gabriel mocking him behind his back?

  He swung around, his helmet under his arm. But Gabriel wasn’t looking at Jocelyn at all now. In fact, he was watching one of Lord Fernshaw’s footmen, dressed as a medieval squire, hurry toward the stands.