The Wedding Night of an English Rogue

by Jillian Hunter

  “I lost my father, too,” he said after a pause.

  “Russell told me,” she said, shaking her head in sympathy. “I suppose it helps, though, having all your brothers and sisters.”

  “They’re a distraction. But . . . you were close to your father.”

  She smiled, taking him off guard. Maturity had created a flattering effect on her face, defining the strong bones, her rather wide mouth, and sharp chin, bringing her features into proportion. Arresting. A woman of character. “He liked you. I never knew how much until the month he died. . . .”

  He had no time to ask her what she meant.

  Voices in the hallway outside the study broke the unwelcome intimacy between them. They moved apart, toward the door, managing to appear as if they were two guests who had wandered off separately for a breather. Heath stood and watched her disappear into the cloakroom. He had no idea exactly what excuse he would use, but one thing was certain—he wasn’t about to spend a month guarding Julia for another man.

  Julia retreated into the cloakroom, completely chagrined with her behavior. All these years of deceiving herself. Of believing she had changed, grown stronger, learned from her mistakes. All the lectures and imaginary conversations she’d held in front of the looking glass. The clever come-backs, the cool distance she would put between them.

  All gone the moment she had stared up into Heath Boscastle’s unforgettable blue eyes. She might have been an empty-headed girl again, not a widow who was well past the first blush. Incredible, embarrassing that he could raze all her defenses to so completely unsettle her. The only difference between now and then was that she could hide her feelings. But she still felt them. She couldn’t blame him for her reaction to his appeal.

  She dabbed the pulse points of her wrists with a sponge soaked in orange water, hoping the cool fragrance would settle the flurry of her thoughts. It hadn’t helped that he was as charming as ever or so genuinely kind about her father. Or that her father’s dying regret had been that she had not “married Boscastle.”

  “Damn it all anyway,” she said, and threw the sponge into the ceramic washbasin. “Damn all men.”

  “Surely not all of them,” an amused female voice remarked behind her.

  Julia revolved slowly to see the petite figure of a woman in her early thirties reclining on the velvet settee. The woman rose with the languid self-indulgence of an empress. Her name was on the tip of Julia’s tongue. She knew her.

  “You’re—”

  “Audrey Watson,” the woman said with a warm smile. “Do you remember me?”

  “Of course. We met at Hyde Park ages ago.” Julia forced a smile, reminding herself she was in London and the rules she’d almost forgotten now applied. At the time of their meeting Audrey had just become the mistress of a well-known portrait painter. Apparently, from what Julia had read in the papers, that affair was only the beginning of a successful career as a courtesan. London Society adored Audrey. She threw scandalous parties and sold sexual favors for outrageous sums.

  A courtesan. Good heavens. What an auspicious start to Julia’s entrée back into Society.

  Audrey smiled as if she could read Julia’s mind. “You’ve heard the gossip about me, naturally. Don’t worry, darling—it’s all true.”

  Julia blinked. She understood immediately why Society liked this woman. She exuded a great sense of fun. “Well, in that case, congratulations. You’ve done better with the opposite sex than I have.”

  Audrey regarded her with concern. “You’re Lady Whitby now, aren’t you? Julia Hepworth, the girl who likes guns.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Audrey laughed in delight. “You’re as notorious as I am, and we’ve both made our name using men.”

  “The similarity ends there, I’m afraid,” Julia said with mock solemnity. “You see, I’ve become infamous for shooting them, and you . . . you . . .”

  “Allow them to shoot,” Audrey said with a sly grin. “I have left a few of my lovers with injuries, though, if it makes you feel any better.”

  Julia sighed, remembering why she had ducked into this room to hide. “I wish my affairs were that simple.”

  Audrey lowered her voice, nodding meaningfully toward the young maidservant who was arranging cloaks and shawls, while avidly listening to every word of this conversation.

  “Did I see you sneaking off a few minutes ago for a rendezvous with Heath Boscastle?” she asked under her breath.

  Julia’s mouth fell open. She’d happily forgotten that Society had eyes and ears in every corner. “It wasn’t a rendezvous.”

  Audrey smiled as if she knew better. “It is said in female circles that to be in the mere presence of a Boscastle is to have a rendezvous, Julia. A woman’s senses are overwhelmed.”

  “That’s certainly true,” she said without thinking.

  “They’re the very best rogues in the world,” Audrey added with enthusiasm. “I adore each and every one of them.”

  For some odd reason Audrey’s announcement did not make Julia feel better. Knowing that other women found Heath irresistible did not give her an added advantage. In fact, it only seemed to enhance his unholy appeal, and to drive home how impossible this arrangement between them would prove. Heath Boscastle, her bodyguard. He did not appear to be any happier about the situation than she was, and she could hardly blame him. What an imposition on his life. She’d already involved him in her aunt’s silly affair with the earl.

  Audrey’s eye widened in scandalous delight. “Don’t tell me Boscastle has asked you to become his mistress.”

  Julia sighed. “Of course he hasn’t.”

  Audrey gave a gasp. “Your wife? I shall swoon with envy.”

  “Obviously you have not heard the news,” Julia said crisply, realizing how out of practice she’d become in social arts. “I am engaged to Sir Russell Althorne.”

  “Althorne?” Audrey had allowed her voice to rise again in unmistakable disappointment. “Oh.”

  The young maidservant glanced up at Julia in astonishment, subjecting her to a closer scrutiny. The door opened to admit three chattering debutantes. Audrey drew back gracefully to allow them room, jostling for space. She sent Julia an apologetic smile, recovering her composure, but her next comment only reinforced her true feelings.

  “Well, in that case, I agree with your previous sentiment.”

  Julia wavered. It was the perfect moment to escape. She did not want to be lured into revealing anything she regretted about her past association with Heath. Or her current one, either. But Audrey had cleverly piqued her curiosity, and Julia found she had to take that first bite of the apple, never mind what the serpent would do to her afterward. Clearly the woman disliked Russell.

  “My previous sentiment?” she asked in a soft voice. “What do you mean?”

  Audrey shook her head. “ ‘Damn all men.’ That was what you said when you came in here, wasn’t it?”

  That was what she’d said, but by now two other women had squeezed into the small room. It was neither the time nor the place to continue the conversation, and it probably would not help her reputation to be seen openly seeking the advice of a known courtesan. Did Audrey have private knowledge of Russell? A reason to disapprove? Perhaps Russell had shunned her in public. Or was she merely so smitten with the Boscastle line that all other men paled in comparison?

  Julia told herself that this must be the case.

  The Boscastle men, as she knew from experience, were spellbinding devils who cast lesser beings into their shadows.

  Chapter 5

  Julia sat in a corner of the ballroom with her aunt for the next half hour, patiently answering questions about her life in India. How had she survived so long removed from civilization? Did she still have nightmares? Did her servants all smoke hookahs and consider her an infidel? The Earl of Odham tried repeatedly to draw Hermia onto the floor, but she refused and scolded him for behaving like a vain old fool. Julia suspected that her aunt enjoyed all the atte
ntion, and that she still had deep feelings for the earl, even if she could not forgive his infidelity. Julia did not judge her. She might have done the same in her place.

  “Did you know,” Hermia asked behind her fan, “that the notorious courtesan Audrey Watson is here tonight?”

  “Yes.” Julia stared across the room, not meeting her aunt’s eyes. “I talked with her earlier.”

  Hermia lowered her fan, aghast. “You talked with her?”

  “Yes. She’s a lovely woman.”

  “What did she say?” her aunt asked eagerly.

  “She—” Julia broke off in exasperation. It was impossible to concentrate on normal conversation. Heath had kept her under his scrutiny the entire evening, and didn’t try to hide it. When she had emerged from the cloakroom, there he had stood, waiting patiently, his presence probably adding fuel to Audrey’s speculation that there was something between them. He’d insisted on escorting her back to the ballroom and had watched her ever since. Twenty minutes ago she had attempted to sneak out into the garden to escape the stuffy, perfumed air. By some preternatural instinct, he had proceeded her and was lying in wait on the terrace, calmly smoking a cigar.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she said, her heart lodging in her throat. “Again.”

  “Would you care to take a walk?” he asked, the practiced rogue concealed behind the perfect gentleman as he extended his arm.

  Julia ignored the tempting gesture. She had to admit to herself that if one had to choose a bodyguard, he could not be bested.

  “Yes, I would like to walk, thank you. But alone, if you don’t mind. I grew accustomed to strolling by myself in India.”

  He glanced down into the garden’s shadowed walkways. “I can’t allow it,” he said, shaking his head in apology.

  “You can’t allow—”

  “Military discipline, and all that.” He crossed the terrace to where she stood, depositing his cigar in a potted fern. “For the moment I am merely obeying orders.”

  She folded her arms across her midsection, feeling breathless, unbalanced. He really was taking his responsibility too far. “This will not work.”

  “I agree,” he said, his smile rueful.

  “You do?”

  He moved into a circle of moonlight, meeting her surprised gaze. Silvery shadows deepened the angles of his attractive face. “When did your husband die?”

  “Fourteen months ago.”

  He said nothing. She could almost see his clever mind calculating the passage of time. Four months to sail from India. Another month or so to visit relatives—Russell’s support had seen her through when she had been too distressed to think clearly. He had been waiting for Julia at Dover, with a private suite prepared for her at the inn before he rushed her off to her father’s side. He’d taken care of every detail. Swept off her feet, that was what she had been. She was beginning to feel more grounded now, more capable of thinking for herself. Sometimes she regretted accepting Russell’s proposal without a little time to catch her breath. But she did not want to be alone again, and he had proved himself a true, reliable friend who would make a good father. They both wanted children. Julia’s only fear was that perhaps they did not know each other as well as they might have.

  “Do you want to walk?” she asked Heath suddenly, a little unsettled by his guarded silence, reminding herself that he was only acting in her best interests. It was hardly his fault that her heart pounded wildly in his presence.

  He studied the garden. “On second thought, no. We’re probably safer inside.”

  Safer? From what? She fell into step with him, the unspoken question hanging in the air. Was he acknowledging that he felt unsafe in her company? If he felt anything for her at all, he certainly hid it well. For which she ought to be relieved. “Do you really think that Russell is in danger?” she asked.

  “Russell thinks so.” He turned to her, his perceptive blue eyes cutting straight to her heart. “Auclair is capable of anything. This I know from experience. What I did not know was that he had become active. I’d hoped we had heard the end of him.”

  She had to admit that it was a pleasant feeling, walking beside this solid, broad-shouldered man. He might undermine her composure, she might not trust herself alone with him, but no one could question his ability to protect her. Nor could she argue with Audrey Watson’s assessment, that to be in the company of a Boscastle was overwhelming to the senses. And how could she ever forget that this particular male had an absolute talent for seduction? She guarded those wicked memories deep in her heart.

  She glanced back into the garden, gasping softly. “Your cigar—it’s still smoking in the pot.”

  He grinned down at her. “Let it smoke.”

  “But where there’s smoke—”

  “There’s usually a Boscastle in the vicinity.”

  Let it smoke, indeed.

  Julia was the one who felt as if she were doing a slow smolder as they reentered the crowded ballroom a minute later, engulfed in the airless, candlelit warmth. As expected, several guests stared at them, some merely curious, others openly surprised. Heath seemed not to notice, or care. In fact, he drew even more attention than Russell, who thrived on attracting public interest. She held her head high and allowed a half smile to linger on her lips. If not for Heath, she might have stayed outside for another hour. Russell did not believe her when she warned him she had lost her social graces. Or maybe she no longer had the tolerance for such nonsense. She had dealt with far larger issues of life.

  Heath turned to talk to a middle-aged couple, placing his hand on Julia’s arm to keep her from wandering off again. She heard a few snatches of gossip drifting from a small group of overdressed matrons who stood a few feet away.

  “—and doesn’t even have the decency to wear half mourning.”

  “Well, what would you expect from a widow who shot a man in the— I cannot even say the word.”

  Heath glanced around, interrupting his conversation to announce, “In the arse. She shot the bastard in the arse. I don’t know if it was in the left or the right cheek, or even straight in the middle. You’d have to ask her yourself.”

  “Well, I never!” the matron exclaimed.

  “Perhaps you should,” he retorted with a devilish smirk. “It might do you a world of good. It might even keep you from repeating gossip at parties.”

  He nodded cordially to the couple, who smiled at him in approval. Then he took Julia’s arm and whisked her into the center of the ballroom under the shimmering glow of the three-tiered crystal chandelier. Where everyone could see them. The sought-after rogue and the notorious widow who had shot an English soldier in the backside.

  “Thank you,” she said drily as the gay music of a country dance floated from the dais. “That should help my reputation immeasurably.”

  She could not hear his reply. His deep voice was drowned out by the sudden burst of fiddles, cellos, and violins from the orchestra, but it seemed to Julia that the impertinent rascal said, “Well, was it the left or right?”

  To which she replied as their shoulders touched, “Neither. It was in the middle. I gave him a third dimple to remember me by.”

  She felt as stiff and ungainly as a wooden nutcracker. The other couples on the dance floor were sneaking glances at them, probably comparing Heath’s natural grace to Julia’s hesitant movements. Expecting her to pull out a pistol and start shooting out the candles one by one. She hated that she wondered what people thought. She hated the thought that something she said or did would embarrass Russell when he’d worked so hard to earn his reputation. She was a liability and afraid it might be too late to change.

  She turned the wrong way; Heath locked his arm in hers and firmly guided her back in step, weaving through the line as if he could do so in his sleep. Dancing with him was not easy on her nerves. His masculinity was a little too distracting for her to concentrate on what she was doing, and whether she wanted to admit it or not, she did feel awkward and inelegant, her talent fo
r decorum rusty from years of neglect.

  But gradually her nerves begin to relax. She followed his lead, his grace. His calmness calmed her. She sensed he was determined to put her at ease in his subtle way.

  He had always been observant. He noticed every mistake she made, and yes, she should have worn half mourning; Russell thought so, too, but she could not bring herself to observe tradition. She had lost both her father and husband, and by not wearing black, she didn’t mean to dishonor either of them. Her father had despised mourning garments, claiming that widows looked for all the world like black crows. She refused to follow etiquette out of respect for people she did not know. And the truth was that she had barely known Sir Adam Whitby when she’d married him. She had not known him much better when he died, but she would have been a good wife if she’d been given the chance. She believed in commitment.

  She and her young husband had seen each other only a few times a year in India. Adam was always traveling to one outpost or another, and she had read and sketched to fill her lonely hours. She felt guilty that she did not miss him more. She did not even have a child to console her. What she did have was her father’s sizable fortune, and she had inherited his confidence, his belief in her, his passion for life. It would see her through.

  “You’re going the wrong way again,” Heath whispered in amusement, swinging her around in the opposite direction.

  “I was trying to escape.”

  He flashed her a wicked grin. “From me? Darling, how could you?”

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  “Unprecedented. And here I thought I was behaving at my best.”

  They came together for an instant in the dance, bodies touching, heat flaring, their eyes locked. Julia lost her ability to think, to move, to breathe. Her breasts tingled against the confines of her bodice, a shiver of raw sensation slid down her spine. His gaze darkened in acknowledgment—he knew seduction inside and out—then the dance separated them again.