He spent the remainder of the night in the library where he’d decided to set up headquarters until he could decide upon a more suitable solution. Would the ton talk? Unquestionably. This was something to talk about. Naturally, it would be assumed that he and Julia were in the throes of a passionate affair, and for his own part he did not particularly care. Russell could hardly complain. He had set the stage for this drama.
Heath would not be a Boscastle if he had not managed to stir up his share of scandal. Although to his credit, he had never deliberately provoked gossip. In fact, he had studiously tried to avoid it. Julia, in her day, had set tongues wagging. People were bound to talk. It was the least of his worries.
His primary concern was not the shallow-minded rumors that circulated in Society. It was protecting her while not seducing her insensible, a dilemma that weighed heavily on his mind and which might have explained why, when he strolled into the drawing room after breakfast the next day, he realized he had forgotten her sly prediction that the morning would bring a shock.
Lady Dalrymple’s painting club. He knew the instant he looked around that he had made a grave error in underestimating Julia’s warning. When would he learn? The woman surprised him at every turn.
The room had been transformed into an amateur artists’ gallery. The damask sofa and delicate gilt tea tables had been pushed aside beneath white sheets to allow room for a semicircle of sketching tables, easels, and chattering women in muslin smocks who perched on Chippendale chairs.
Heath froze in the doorway as a dozen or so female heads turned in his direction. Julia glanced up from the corner where she sat with a sketchbook before her. She waved her pencil at him and declared loudly, “Oh, look, it’s Lord Boscastle. He must have come to pose as our Apollo. Let’s give him a warm welcome.”
He turned on his heels to flee. Lady Dalrymple sprang up from her chair and caught him by the long tails of his morning coat. He found himself being unceremoniously reeled back into the room like a fish.
“Don’t by shy, Boscastle.”
“Shy? I’m not shy. I am merely not given to self-exposure.”
Julia cleared her throat. “There’s no shame in the human body being used for artistic purposes.”
“Not to mention the orphans it will clothe,” said a thin-voiced matron from behind her enormous easel. “Do you mind removing your shirt? For artistic purposes.”
Heath blinked. “Do I—”
“It’s not as if you haven’t done it dozens of times before,” said one of the Misses Darlington seated at his right.
“Hopefully not in front of this large an audience,” murmured a low familiar voice beside Julia’s spot in the circle.
He groaned inwardly. That ascerbic voice belonged to none other than Jane, his sharp-witted sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Sedgecroft, who was married to Heath’s older brother, Grayson. All he needed was for a member of the family to witness this humiliating moment. He would never hear the end of it.
He directed an indignant scowl at Jane. “The first—and last—time I posed for anyone was at your house. I do not recall it as a pleasant experience.”
Jane smiled wickedly. “Only because the housekeeper found you and the artist—Miss Summers, wasn’t she—in a rather unartistic pose.”
“That is untrue,” he said, aware of Julia staring at him. “My toga merely unraveled, and Miss Summers was offering to straighten it.”
“My dear brother-in-law,” Jane said in a patently sweet voice. “Think of all the charities you will fund by posing for us. I should have considered you myself.”
He gave her a sardonic look. “I would be more than happy to make a donation, Jane. In fact, I shall instruct my secretary to draft—”
“If you can pose for Eloise Summers,” Julia said, looking up over her sketchbook, “you can certainly pose for us. Do be a good sport, Heath.”
“And make a donation afterward,” Lady Dalrymple added.
A storm of excited chatter swept around the circle.
“I cannot believe we have a Boscastle in our midst.”
“Have you seen his eyes? I shall have to mix a dozen colors before I start to paint.”
“Is he really going to pose for us? How shall I do justice to that manly form, that face? Ladies, my pencils are starting to blush.”
Heath retreated several steps toward the door. “I’m sorry. I completely forgot that your club was meeting this morning. Do forgive the intrusion. Please continue. Without me.”
“Intrusion?” one of the amateur artists squealed, waving her hog-bristle brush in the air. “You mean he isn’t going to stay?”
“Of course he’s staying,” Lady Dalrymple said, moving quickly to block his path. “He promised Julia last night that he would.”
Heath frowned; was it possible to tackle a woman of Hermia’s age without hurting her? “I did nothing of the sort. Julia, did you misrepresent me?”
She was fidgeting with her charcoals. “I am representing you as a Greek god. I should think you’d be flattered.”
He managed to slip around Hermia before she could catch him again. “Use the butler.”
“We’ve already used the butler,” one elderly lady with rouged cheeks remarked. “We voted to fashion our Hermes after him.”
Julia was staring down at her sketchbook with an evasive smile. “Because he’s so fast on his feet.”
He backed into the doorway. Payton, the silver-haired butler, stood behind him, bearing a tray of refreshments and shaking his head in sympathy.
“You may as well give in, my lord,” he said in an undertone. “They shall hound you unmercifully until you do. Take my word. A graceful surrender is easier in the long run.”
“Please, Heath,” Julia said in a dulcet voice.
He didn’t trust that voice. Julia’s sugary façade hid Satan’s heart.
“I’m not posing,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Do not ask me again. I did not come to this house to be . . . exploited. And that is the end of it.”
“Do you mind lifting up the leg of your trousers, dear?” Mrs. Hemswell asked the tall figure standing in the center of the room, his handsome face frozen in a disdainful scowl.
“Yes, I mind,” Heath snapped. “I feel bloody ridiculous as it is. As if I were a Christmas goose being examined at the market.”
“You don’t look at all like any Christmas goose I’ve ever been served,” Julia murmured, nibbling on the end of her pencil.
Heath’s sister-in-law, Jane, grinned in agreement. “Nor I.”
One of the Misses Darlington raised her head. “He reminds me ever so much of the prize stallion my uncle brought at a private auction.”
Heath threw down the white silk sheet that had been draped over his shoulder. “Apollo is fed up. In fact, he’s about to ask Zeus for a few lightning bolts to hurl.”
Lady Dalrymple frowned at him. “For charity, Boscastle.”
“Somebody ought to show me a little charity,” he muttered.
“I say, Boscastle,” Julia said, squinting her right eye, “could you flex your shoulder again? My lines are a little off.”
“Give us a rear view, dear,” Lady Dalrymple murmured.
“Give you a what?” Heath asked, his brow shooting up.
“I should like to see some fluidity. Some movement,” Jane said, studying her drawing with a critical frown.
“So would I,” Heath snapped. “As in movement out of this room.”
Julia’s eyes twinkled in delight. “Ladies, I think we should let our deity stretch a bit. He’s becoming a little stiff.”
“I’m mummified,” Heath muttered, pulling his shirt back over his one exposed shoulder; he had refused to remove the garment, despite their pleas. “Are we finished?”
Lady Dalrymple lowered her pencil. “Not by any means. It’s a good thing we have you in our midst. The portrait of Apollo is one of the most important pieces in the collection.”
Heath stepped down from the makes
hift dais. “I’m feeling more like Hades at the moment, if you take my meaning. Let me have a look at these masterpieces.”
Julia hugged her sketchbook to her chest. “You mustn’t look at mine until it’s done.”
He pivoted, leaning across the back of her chair to gaze over her shoulder. “Fair is fair. I ought to be allowed a look. Give us a gander.”
“Just a peek then,” she said, holding up her sketchbook with a flourish.
His eyes widened. He stared in shock at the artless drawing. “God in heaven. I’m—”
“Apollo au naturel,” Julia said gleefully. “Have I got your proportions right? I had to use my imagination for the covered parts.”
He studied the sketch in horror. He’d no idea he was being reduced to such basic terms. “I’d say the fig leaves need to be larger. As in large enough to cover the entire drawing.”
“What do you think, Jane?” Julia asked the marchioness, who had just risen to examine the sketch. “Are Heath’s parts all in proportion?”
“I’m married to Grayson, Julia,” Jane replied in amusement. “I am hardly an expert on Heath’s attributes.”
“But they are brothers,” Julia said, meeting his dark stare. “They must share certain . . . characteristics.”
Heath held her gaze. “I keep my characteristics private, thank you.”
Julia smirked back at him. “Perhaps Miss Summers could enlighten us.”
“Jealous, Julia?” he asked under his breath.
She hesitated. “Of course not. Eloise has no artistic talent at all.”
He stretched his arms over his head. “I shall have to see that sketch in more detail before I give it my approval.”
She bit her lip, crossing her arms over the sketching table. “It’s not ready. I still need to draw in some more details. This is merely the framework.”
“Oh, good,” he said, staring at her. “Then it can be fixed if I have a few suggestions. Such as adding clothes.”
“I intend to sketch a chariot in the background,” she said thoughtfully, tapping her pencil against her chin. “I haven’t decided whether Apollo should carry his bow or a lyre.”
“He should wear clothes,” Heath said firmly. “And possibly a mask to hide his identity.”
“Look at mine, Lord Boscastle,” one of the Darlington sisters called, waving her fingers in his face. “What do you think?”
He glanced down politely, managing to hide his smirk at her amateur scribbles. “I don’t recall that Apollo went about Olympus pointing his arrow at people. Especially from that angle.”
The young lady peered down at her sketch. “Oh, that isn’t an arrow. It’s his—”
“I trust that none of this shall be on public display?” Heath said quickly, casting a rather menacing smile upon the group.
Julia gave him a chastising look. “Any works of art the club creates are auctioned off for charity.”
“Do you mean that my disrobed likeness shall be hanging in someone’s drawing room?”
Lady Dalrymple beamed at him. “Just imagine, Boscastle—the Duke of Wellington could be staring up at you from his dinner table every evening.”
“What a chilling thought,” he said.
“You could become the talk of London,” Julia said slyly.
He turned to glare at her. “The joke of it, you mean.”
Julia merely shook her head as if she had no idea what he was upset about. And suddenly it didn’t matter. He could not imagine why he was allowing this to happen to him. But one thing he knew for certain. She was the only person in the world who could place him in this position with impunity. No one else would have dared, or would have gotten away with it.
There was a quiet knock on her door. Julia rose from the fireplace, where she had been burning old letters, a hot poker still in her hand. Her heart began to race, although not with fear. It was well past midnight, and the house had settled into its usual nocturnal silence.
A servant would never knock at this hour. A certain rogue would. What could he possibly want? She refused to let her mind wander. She was far too fascinated by the possibilities.
She pressed her cheek to the door, whispering in a stern tone, “Who is it?”
“Who do you think it is?” a deep male voice asked.
She closed her eyes. Her pulse was already thrumming in anticipation. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”
She could almost imagine his smile. “I don’t know.”
“What do you want this late at night?” she whispered, her hand already at the lock.
“Open the door, Julia.”
“You sound . . . intense. I’m not sure I should let you in.”
“Open the door.”
She pressed her left shoulder against the doorframe. Her smile deepened. “Why should I?”
“I can unlock it from here if you prefer.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I’m damned polite, that’s why, and I didn’t want to give you a fright.” He hesitated. His voice dropped an octave. “Are you dressed?”
She glanced down at the thin nightrail of ivory silk she had brought back with her from India. “Barely. I mean, not for a ball, I—”
There was a click, the sound of the tumbler turning, and she was staring into his sinfully blue eyes, unable to breathe, to say a single word. She should have known better than to call his bluff.
“There,” he said. “That was easy, wasn’t it?”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I’m on a mission.”
He edged around her, his eyes narrowed. Julia felt a chill of foreboding slide down her spine as she followed at his heels. He looked dangerous, intent, determined. Heath Boscastle, the spymaster, the trained officer, the professional assassin. In her room. On a mission. A sense of light-headedness swept over her. What was going on? She had expected something else entirely. How embarrassing to be thinking he meant to seduce her when he was only doing his duty. She straightened, struck by a disturbing possibility.
Could it mean he had spotted a genuine intruder and suspected he was hiding in her room? She hoisted the poker a little higher as he knelt to look under the bed.
“What are you doing?” she said in an alarmed voice.
“Trying to find a hiding place.”
“A hiding place? In here?”
She held her breath. The thought of someone breaking into her house, into her own room, turned her blood cold. If an intruder had gained entry, he might have been lying in wait the entire time she was undressing for bed. Perhaps there had been someone in the garden watching her. Perhaps she should have taken Russell’s warnings more seriously.
She watched, her heart pounding in her throat, as Heath sprang to his feet, his face grim but not frightened at all. In fact, he almost seemed to be enjoying himself. “Not under there.”
“Do you need my gun?” she whispered, her mouth dry. “You really should have one.”
He frowned at her. “A pair of scissors should do. Otherwise I’ll use my bare hands.”
“Your bare hands?” she said with a gasp. “That’s a little brutal.” She backed away from him, reaching behind her for the door. “Let me fetch help.”
He sprang to his feet. His voice was matter-of-fact. “No. I do not want any witnesses.”
Her jaw dropped as he strode resolutely toward her wardrobe. “In my armoire? In my dresses?”
He glanced almost casually over his shoulder. “Put down that poker before you burn yourself.”
She obeyed and lowered it carefully to the hearth. “I really wish you would take my gun,” she said in an undertone.
“Is your wardrobe locked?”
“No—no, but don’t open it. . . .”
He smiled in satisfaction. “It’s in here?”
“It?” Her pistol was under her pillow. “Wouldn’t a gun be a quicker way to handle this?”
“A bit overdoing it, don’t you think?”
/> “What are you going to do if he’s in there?” she asked unsteadily.
“Cut the damned thing into a thousand pieces.”
“The thing?” She flinched as he wrenched open the wardrobe door with an utter disregard for his safety that seemed more foolhardy than courageous. “You mean him, don’t you?”
“Him?”
He stuck his head into the row of morning dresses, cloaks, and evening gowns that were arranged in no particular order. Julia reached behind her for the pistol she had hidden.
“The spy. Russell’s nemesis. He isn’t in there, is he?”
He turned to her in annoyance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m looking for the sketch of me you did today. I will not have that seen in public. Where did you hide it?”
She straightened, looking appalled. No wonder he’d been so calm. “Are you telling me that you broke into my bedroom—that you came here this late at night—to find my sketch of you?”
He advanced on her, one dark eyebrow arched. “What did you think I was looking for? I want that sketch, Julia.”
She turned, lunging for the pillow. “I want my gun.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” He dove around her and flattened himself out on the bed, crossing his arms under his head. “Where’s the sketch?”
“Hermia has it.”
He stared up at her, looking more perfectly at ease, more appealing in her bed than was decent. “Hermia?”
“Yes. Why don’t you break into her bedroom?”
He gave her an engaging grin. Her breath caught in reaction. “I don’t think she’d be nearly as much fun as you.”
“Fun?” she said in indignation, as angry with herself as she was at him. “I thought you were trying to protect me. I thought you were about to kill a man.”
“I’d hardly do so with a pair of scissors.” His grin faded, replaced by a dangerous intensity. His smoldering gaze traveled down her silk-clad form, then slowly returned to her face. Her body temperature rose. “Do you always look this desirable when you’re going to bed?”
“Only when I’m expecting a rogue to come to my room and drape himself over that bed.” She laced her arm around the bed’s wooden poster as if to anchor herself against temptation. He’d done it again. Seduced her with a single look. “Up with you.”
The Wedding Night of an English Rogue Page 11