The Sinful Nights of a Nobleman

by Jillian Hunter

  This piece of gossip accused Jocelyn of adultery.

  He wouldn’t stand for it.

  And then he stood so abruptly that the underfootman in attendance nearly dropped his tray. “Are you going out, my lord?” he asked, recovering his platter and wits at the same time.

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I be accompanying you?”

  “No.”

  He was going to pay his wife a surprise visit, and God help them both if he discovered that there were grounds for the morning’s gossip because the next story printed about him would be that he’d committed murder in Mayfair.

  And it would be true.

  His sister Emma granted him only a perfunctory if predictably polite greeting when she was called from her deportment class to admit him into the study of their older brother’s home. Lord Heath Boscastle and his wife, Julia, were visiting friends in Scotland; Emma had moved her school into their house until they returned.

  “I hope the girls don’t see you, Devon,” she said levelly. “You know that half of them fancy themselves in love with you. I can’t have them sighing and swooning all day when I’m trying to hold their attention.”

  He grinned. “God bless them.”

  “And protect them from handsome young devils like you, my love.” She drummed her tapered fingertips on her desk. “And now that we have prayed together, may I ask what you are doing here in the middle of the afternoon?”

  “I would like to see my wife.”

  “Your wife?” she said blankly.

  “Yes, please. I need to talk with her for a moment.” She stared back at him as if he were babbling nonsense, and indeed, he felt like the king of fools. “It’s about what was printed in the paper this morning,” he added quietly.

  She closed her eyes. “What has our family done this time?”

  His mouth thinned. “Nothing. And it has nothing to do with me, so please don’t ask.”

  “Well, thank heavens. What—”

  “Where is my wife?”

  “She’s gone with Charlotte to hunt for costumes in the old trunk of clothes that have been donated to the academy.”

  “She’s with Charlotte.” He repeated this as if to reassure himself. Of course, Jocelyn was not up to any nonsense, not with Emma in the house. Why had he let a bit of scuttlebutt befool him? He should have known better. He’d scolded Jocelyn for believing gossip. Why couldn’t he take his own advice?

  “I can hear them thumping about now,” Emma added. “Devon, are you all right?”

  He smiled. His wife was with Charlotte, and there was nothing alarming or adulterous about that. “I should help them then, if the trunk is heavy.” It seemed now that he would have to find an excuse to explain what he was doing here. He’d be damned if he would admit to Jocelyn that he’d been upset by gossip when he’d chided her for the same reaction.

  “I sent Mr. Griffin up to help with the heavy work,” Emma added, still watching him in concern.

  “The Welshman?”

  “Yes.”

  He swallowed. “Isn’t he the Latin instructor?”

  “Among other things,” Emma replied, giving him a puzzled smile. “He’s qualified in quite a few subjects if you must know.”

  He sent a covert glance up the empty staircase. He couldn’t hear any of the aforementioned thumping, but he definitely detected laughter, gales and gales of unrestrained giggles followed by a man’s deep lilting voice.

  “It sounds as if someone is being amused,” he remarked wryly.

  “Perhaps someone is a little too amused for her own good,” Emma retorted. “I’m afraid that her Boscastle blood is running true.”

  “She married me,” he said darkly. “A wife can be influenced by bad behavior, but Jocelyn is not a blood relation.”

  She stared at him. “I was referring to Charlotte, Devon,” she said softly. “Our cousin.”

  “I know who the bloody hell Charlotte is.” But he didn’t know who he was at this moment, or what he was becoming.

  Emma rose from her desk. “I must return to class. Will you ask your wife and Charlotte to go about their quest more quietly?”

  He stood only moments later outside the first-floor library door, his hand raised to knock. The sound of Jocelyn’s soft, refined voice made him hesitate.

  “ ‘…as a lover’s pinch. / Which hurts, and is desire.’ ”

  Desire, his arse.

  The rational part of him realized there was nothing to worry about, and if he were wise, he would simply continue knocking until he was acknowledged.

  But another part, unfortunately, that dominant instinct by which his forgotten ancestors had abducted their women and locked them away for lascivious purposes, proved to be stronger.

  He pushed open the door without knocking.

  His wife—well, the rear part of her—was bent over a trunk overflowing with costume props and clothing. Leaning against her shoulder was a young man who resembled a gypsy in a billowing shirt and black velvet trousers.

  He coughed. Neither of them heard him. “Caught in the act,” he said loudly, leaning his elbow against the door to observe them.

  Jocelyn wiggled around in surprise. “Yes. It’s act five, scene two of Antony and Cleopatra, to be precise.” Her eyes brightened. “Devon, it’s you. When did you come home?”

  Her companion shot to his feet, mirth glittering in his coal-black eyes. A ball of twine was wound around his wrist. “We were hunting for a snake to use in the play, my lord.”

  Devon smiled halfheartedly in response to the Welshman’s warmth. “I shouldn’t think she’d have to look far.”

  Mr. Griffin almost dropped his twine. Jocelyn straightened, her hair disheveled, the blush in her cheeks becoming. Clearly Devon’s displeasure had been received, but he barely had time to decide whether it had been deserved before he noticed there was another person in the room. Which meant there had been a third witness to his behavior.

  It was his cousin Charlotte, dressed in a sheet that he supposed was meant to be a toga, a gold headband tied crookedly across her high forehead. She was holding a basket of something that looked like old prunes.

  “What the devil are you doing dressed like that?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  “I’m playing the part of Charmian, Cleopatra’s handmaiden.”

  Mr. Griffin cleared his throat, casting a hesitant look in Devon’s direction. “Perhaps I should go back downstairs to assist Lady Lyons.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Jocelyn said softly.

  She turned slowly to look at Devon. The young Welshman made a wise exit. And Charlotte merely stared across the room in her ridiculous costume and said nothing, although her keen gaze seemed to absorb all.

  Devon put his hand to his face. “I believe I just made an asp of myself.”

  Jocelyn shared an amused glance with Charlotte. “It must look rather odd—”

  “It doesn’t look odd at all,” he said, his gaze on her face.

  She pushed her hair from her eyes. “I’m glad you’re back, Devon.”

  He smiled at her, wishing they were alone. “I’m glad I’m back, too.”

  Jocelyn could not decide what had changed about Devon in the past week or so. She’d missed him terribly while he was gone, of course, especially at night, although his family had made sure to occupy every hour of her days.

  She’d been so busy at the academy, enjoying working with Emma and Charlotte, that it wasn’t until later that evening that she remembered Devon wasn’t supposed to come home for another two days.

  She realized, after she ate supper alone and read the papers, that he must have returned early from Brighton and come straightaway to see her at Heath’s house.

  And what had he seen?

  His wife buried in a trunk, and poor Mr. Griffin acting guiltily when he’d done nothing untoward at all. And then it occurred to her that Devon had been jealous. That he’d entered the library as if he’d expected to find—

  Wel
l, who knew what he’d expected to find? His wife engaging in an affair? The mere thought sent her into gales of silent laughter. Had she herself not allowed a scandal rag to arouse her own suspicions? Was that what had happened? Had Devon returned to the house from Brighton and read the gossip that had been written about Jocelyn and Mr. Griffin?

  The entire situation with Mr. Griffin had been innocent. The scandal sheet had lied. And yet, it wasn’t something she should admit, but she had savored that brief moment when it appeared that she and her rogue husband had swapped roles.

  If Devon had rushed home to see her…if he hurried to Heath’s house to tell her he was back, and she’d been shoulder-to-shoulder with another man—she sat back in her chair with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

  Not for anything would she have provoked her husband into displaying his feelings for her. But she had seen the look on his face when she’d turned in surprise from the trunk.

  And he looked like a man fighting some sort of private battle and losing badly. Why couldn’t she have been home by herself when he’d returned?

  Now he’d gone off again and she was sitting by herself. She sat forward decisively and rang for Mrs. Hadley, who missed little of what went on in her master’s life, whether she approved of it or not.

  “Did my husband read the scandal sheets this morning, Mrs. Hadley? It was my understanding that he had banished them from the house.”

  “Indeed, he did, ma’am,” the housekeeper replied in distress. “I thought I’d ridden the house of those you saw, but some instigator of evil apparently hid one in Lord Devon’s personal papers.”

  “Why?” Jocelyn asked.

  “I’ve no idea. Perhaps it’s one of the trollops hoping to cause trouble in your marriage. I promise you it shall never happen again. Thistle and I have resolved henceforth to read all literature, not counting personal correspondences, of course, that comes to the house.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hadley.”

  The housekeeper walked to the door, then glanced back in hesitation. “People gossip about this family all the time, ma’am.”

  “Goodness, I can’t imagine why.”

  “What can’t you imagine?” Devon asked from the doorway.

  She rose from her chair as he entered into the room. “You missed supper, Devon,” she said quietly. “It was lamb and young peas. I can ask Mrs. Hadley to bring you something before she goes to bed if you’re hungry.”

  “No. It’s all right. I dined with Chloe and Dominic a short while ago. I hadn’t meant to, but I stopped by to see her, and stayed.”

  She met his gaze, helping him out of his coat. One of the things that she adored about him was that he cared for his family. “How is she?”

  “Better, I think. I should have sent word that I would be late. I didn’t mean to make you worry. But I thought…”

  “Yes?”

  He turned slowly, taking her into his arms. “I thought you would be angry at me for what happened today.”

  “I don’t even know what happened,” she exclaimed.

  He caught her chin between his fingers. “Don’t you?”

  “You read the paper?” she asked softly.

  “Tell me it was all lies.”

  She smiled. “Every word.”

  He bent his head to kiss her. “I know.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want any supper?” she asked as his mouth captured hers in a deep, passionate kiss.

  He laughed against her lips. “I don’t care if I never eat another meal again in my life. I want you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Grayson, the Marquess of Sedgecroft, had decided to give a small masquerade party at his Park Lane home at the urging of his sister Emma. Not that as a rule Grayson required a reason to entertain, or that he typically took the advice of the Dainty Dictator, as Emma was fondly called by the family.

  He had become adept at ignoring Emma’s socially enlightened suggestions over the years. Lord knew no one would derive any pleasure from life at all by listening to Emma’s advice. Since the death of their mother, she had assumed the role of Boscastle’s maternal conscience. If not that of the entire world. Where there was a wrong, Emma felt obligated to right it. She meant well, but, by damn, she drove her siblings half-insane with her interfering ways.

  Emma had expressed concern, in her perceptive way, over their sister Chloe’s lingering grief that she had miscarried her first child, as well as her own personal observation that the young marriage of Devon and Jocelyn might require a little support to withstand the barrage of rumors that had assailed them in recent days.

  A bit of encouragement from the family, Emma suggested, might be all that was needed to make Devon and Jocelyn realize how well suited they were to each other.

  Grayson could not argue either point, for his wife, Jane, wiser in such matters than he could ever be, shared the same opinion. Ironically, as it turned out, Jocelyn did not particularly wish to attend the ball, nor from what he could tell, did his brother Devon. This made it rather hard for Grayson to arrange a party in the hope of strengthening their union.

  However, no one, family members included, could ever refuse the marquess, and so it was expected that once he issued the invite, it would be accepted.

  Jocelyn descended from her husband’s carriage and covertly adjusted her heavy golden silk headdress. Perhaps costuming herself as Cleopatra had not been the most inspired choice for her brother-in-law’s ball, but it was the only costume on hand, and Devon had given her scant notice to make other preparations. He seemed as reluctant to attend the party as she did.

  She didn’t understand exactly why she felt so tired or reluctant to go out. Her menses, never entirely predictable, had been delayed this month. This irregularity appeared to contribute to her subtle sense of fatigue. She wondered vaguely whether it also had something to do with the shifting of her moods.

  Whenever Devon glanced at her, she was irrationally tempted to burst into tears. And when he did not look at her, she was even more prone to weep.

  To make matters worse, he disappeared almost from the moment they entered his brother’s elegant home and were announced at the party. She might have been more offended by his desertion had her sister-in-law Jane not taken her aside to confide that Devon and his brothers had congregated for a private brandy in Grayson’s study as was their habit whenever the family met.

  “They call it male discourse,” Jane explained as she led Jocelyn into an antechamber behind the ballroom. “Which means they meet for vulgar jokes and great grunting slaps on the shoulder as if they were bears and not merely brothers. It does make one wonder about the course of human civilization.”

  Jocelyn could only envy the ease with which the marchioness accepted the customs and peculiar conduct of her husband. Even more so she envied the warm glances that Jane and Grayson had shared in the reception room while greeting their guests. Marriage had obviously not dimmed the passion between that pair.

  “That is a provocative costume,” Jane remarked over her shoulder in reference to Jocelyn’s white Egyptian-style dress. “Cleopatra?”

  “Yes.” Jocelyn frowned. “I feel rather bare, but it was all I had on hand.”

  “Why did Devon not dress as Marc Antony?” Jane asked. She looked ethereal and lovely herself as a woodland nymph in a diaphanous copper-green silk gown with silken leaves entwined in her hair. Grayson was rather incongruously dressed as a Roman gladiator.

  Jocelyn trailed Jane down a long vestibule to the refreshment room. “I did not think to ask.”

  “At least he isn’t dressed as a highwayman,” Jane said in amusement.

  Jocelyn paused. “Did you know him when—”

  Before Jocelyn could complete the question, a cluster of guests spotted Jane and rushed to claim her attention. The marchioness had rapidly become one of London’s most popular hostesses, and it was regarded as a sign of importance to be personally acknowledged at one of her parties.

  Jocelyn stood at a loss un
til she glimpsed her sister-in-law Chloe waving for her to join the rest of the family in the ballroom.

  She stepped forward only to feel a hard body brush against hers. Startled, she glanced around. A tall man costumed as a monk inclined his cowl-hooded face to her, his hand clasping the crucifix he wore.

  “I beg your pardon, madam.”

  “It’s quite all right. I think I walked into you.” From the edge of her eye she spied Grayson’s senior footman, Weed, scrutinizing her down the long slope of his nose. For a mortifying moment she thought she was to be chastised by a footman for her clumsiness. She was accustomed to more informal country affairs where one guest bumped into another more often than not.

  She was jarred by the feel of rough, unfamiliar fingers grasping her wrist. She turned in alarm, trying to pull free.

  “How many miles to Babylon?” the monk asked her before he released her hand and melted back into the group of other guests.

  How many miles to Babylon? What nonsense was this? And that voice. Those hard glistening eyes. Did she know him? If so, it could not have been a pleasant association.

  “May I be of service in any way, my lady?” another voice inquired behind her.

  She glanced back reluctantly. The stone-faced senior footman bowed before her, although his shrewd gaze was following the monk’s rapid progress across the room.

  Coloring, she wondered perchance whether Weed had read the scandal sheets and judged her unworthy of the family he served. Or perhaps her social awkwardness was obvious to even the footmen.

  “I am on my way to the ballroom.”

  “May I escort you?” he inquired in an expressionless voice.

  “That is not necessary.”

  “As you wish, madam,” he murmured with a wooden bow.

  Devon had just exited Grayson’s study with his brother Drake when he recognized the footman Weed escorting a tall, curly-haired man through a private passageway. He stopped in astonishment.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “This gentleman asked to see you, my lord,” Weed said. “I took the liberty of admitting him. He insisted he talk to you tonight.”