A Wicked Lord at the Wedding Read online

  Also by Jillian Hunter

  THE SEDUCTION OF AN ENGLISH SCOUNDREL

  THE LOVE AFFAIR OF AN ENGLISH LORD

  THE WEDDING NIGHT OF AN ENGLISH ROGUE

  THE WICKED GAMES OF A GENTLEMAN

  THE SINFUL NIGHTS OF A NOBLEMAN

  THE DEVILISH PLEASURES OF A DUKE

  WICKED AS SIN

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  For Aunt Eleanor, who is nothing like the Eleanor in this story. But any woman who makes her husband take an IQ test before she agrees to marry him, and accepts only after he beat her by one point, is a heroine in my book.

  I love you.

  Chapter One

  LONDON

  OCTOBER 1816

  The baron’s mind was not on the masquerade ball. His brooding thoughts overshadowed a face that even in its undefended moments had been described by his admirers and adversaries alike as cruel.

  His dance partner complained repeatedly that he was not in step. It was true.

  Lord Sebastien Michael Boscastle, 1st Baron Boscastle of Wycliffe, was contemplating how to lure London’s most notorious gentleman to his bed. He hadn’t decided on the exact strategy he would use. But after three months of waiting for an invitation, he had decided that he’d waited long enough. Indeed, it tested his patience to walk, hop, and turn about until the two of them were reunited in the ridiculous figures of the country reel. Only then, as they met, was he completely engaged.

  He couldn’t say the same of his partner.

  Of course it didn’t help that the gentleman who had captured London’s imagination happened to be his wife. She’d captured him seven years ago and held his heart to this day. Everyone understood that the husband ought to maintain the upper hand in a marriage. Still, his wasn’t the sort of problem he could discuss with the other officers at his club. God forbid anyone else found out.

  The fact that his wife had scandalized the Polite World during their six unstable years as a married couple was a consequence he’d been hoping to deal with on the quiet. Whether they had been officially estranged or not, it stung a man’s pride, however, to hear that his wicked beloved had appeared in bedchambers all over town when she had studiously avoided the one bed in which she belonged.

  His fingers flirted with the voluptuous curves of her breasts, then slid down her side, to her hip. She broke away. They made a circle. The next thing he knew, he was holding hands with a sweaty young colonel.

  He shrugged in apology.

  The colonel blushed.

  The dance ended.

  Sebastien bowed, searching for his wife as he straightened.

  She was instantly encircled by chattering guests. He battled his way through the crush to her side. Unruffled, she gave him a smile that indicated she had the situation under control.

  He wished he could say the same.

  To look upon his comely baroness was to see a tall, curvaceous woman who visited libraries and attended parties, who had written one or two political pamphlets, and who wore rather outrageous costumes but who did not indulge in low gossip.

  Perhaps because everyone was gossiping about her.

  All the talk at the costume ball marking the last fortnight of London’s Little Season was of the scoundrel known as the Mayfair Masquer. His escapades had invigorated a year remarkable only for debts and hailstorms. His elusive celebrity had captured the town’s imagination at a time when Society desperately needed a distraction.

  The ladies who braved Lord Trotten’s bal masqué that foggy October night professed alarm that his sightings had become more frequent. Their escorts vowed to protect these cherished gentlewomen in the event that the blackguard appeared in one of their boudoirs.

  Which meant naturally that these gallant young defenders of virtue must first be ensconced behind the closed doors of their helpless damsels’ bedchambers in order to catch the fellow in the act.

  In the act of what exactly was not understood.

  The saucy rapscallion had rifled through one or two desks, a writing cabinet, and several chests of drawers. He had taken nothing of value. Yet he offered the invaluable gift of entertainment, a spark of mischief, to create an amorous mood for those so inclined. He symbolized danger, yes, but also desire.

  “He stole a kiss from me while I was sleeping,” one widow remarked.

  “How would you know, if you were asleep?” asked an obviously envious younger lady.

  The widow smiled. “My cheek still burns.”

  “You are lying,” the young lady said in a seething voice.

  “She isn’t,” said the indolent rake who lived off the widow’s largesse. “I have only to lie beside her and I feel myself catch fire.”

  None of the Masquer’s alleged victims could describe him in helpful detail to the police. In fact, their reports so wildly contradicted one another that he could have been a dozen different men. To add to his air of mystery, varying accounts indicated that over the course of his exploits he had grown several feet in stature.

  His physique had broadened. He had grown a beard. No—his clean-shaven jaw was unmistakable. He had a dimple in his chin.

  The first three ladies who claimed to have sighted him exiting their windows said he had left a peacock feather on their pillows. Soon after it became the rage to pin a peacock plume above one’s heart to show support for … well, one couldn’t say.

  Was it wrong to harbor a secret tendresse for a wicked gentleman who truly had committed no harm? England was recovering from a devastating war. She needed romance.

  So far every one of the Masquer’s devoted victims had once been acclaimed by Society for either her beauty or sexual appeal. A fading blossom could not help perking up a little when the sun of public notice shone upon her again. To be chosen, after all this time, when one had settled for insignificance was more flattering than a lady could admit.

  The single point on which everyone seemed to agree was that this intruder struck in the late evening hours, when shadows drifted across time and dreams could not be discerned from waking truths.

  In those mists of magical perception he appeared and assumed what ever form a woman might most fear, or wish for. The delicate of heart could only shiver in wonder.

  What would he do? What did the unsuspecting want him to do?

  He had to be stopped.

  Didn’t he?

  “I don’t think he exists at all,” one inebriated young blood had the stupidity to announce across a crowded antechamber where a lively conversation on the topic had broken out. The remark promptly ostracized him. He lacked imagination.

  Impostors. Pretenders. Lovers and rivals.

  Only two guests at the masquerade appreciated the delicious absurdity of this speculation. One was the husband of the Mayfair Masquer. Aside from this dubious distinction, Sebastien also held the secondary honor of being the only gentleman at the ball masquerading as Lord Whittington. The other guest in the know was his wife and distracted dancing partner, Eleanor. Costumed as Whittington’s beloved cat, in a knee-length black cloak that swirled around tight broadcloth trousers and jack boots, she trod the floor with a gamely dignity that cast all the requisite princesses and pretty shepherdesses in a pale light.

  He hadn’t taken his eyes off her all night. And not just because her beauty becharmed him.

  He’d kept her in view because he didn’t trust her not to get into trouble.

  His lovely wife had stirred up a cauldron of the stuff while he was gone. She also happened to be the only woman who had ever stirred him. The light shed
from the chandelier above enhanced the milky hue of her complexion. How innocent she looked, how subdued—until one caught the devilish twinkle in her eye.

  Sebastien appraised her in grudging amusement. Who would have guessed that his wife had sent so many other ladies into a swoon? Not that anyone had to convince him of her appeal. He could barely refrain from finishing the dance and whisking her off to a private spot. He hungered for her in whatever masquerade she chose. Whether she would admit to reciprocating his passion was uncertain at this point.

  Until tonight, he hadn’t pressed the issue. But he needed her. Hang the masquerade. To hell with her faux mission. He wanted to be her husband again.

  She didn’t seem to need him, though.

  Her amber-brown eyes regarded him with a confidence that heated his blood. He remembered how enamored of him she’d been when they had met in Spain. They had been married a little over six years ago. He’d been away from England for three. But in the years since they had shared a bed, he had not touched another woman. Unfortunately in the few months since he’d been home, he hadn’t found the words to explain why he’d abandoned her, either. If her trust in him was gone, he could only blame himself. And vow to do better if she’d give him half a chance.

  If she wouldn’t, well, he would have to resort to other means.

  After all, it wasn’t a crime to covet one’s own wife. Nor to seduce her. His pulses fired in anticipation. She’d stolen his heart. He had broken hers.

  “You need to pay attention.” She looked away. “It’s almost time.”

  “I am paying attention,” he retorted, as if they both didn’t know where his thoughts had wandered.

  “Are my whiskers coming off?” she whispered.

  He tucked a tendril of her hair back under her cap. “No. But—” He drew a breath, tortured by the yielding softness of her breasts against his arm.

  What kind of man wanted to make love to a woman with a coal-black nose and broomstick whiskers?

  “I don’t know how you bear it,” she said absently. “It’s driving me quite mad.”

  “I know the cure,” he said in a deep, suggestive voice.

  “I’d shave twice a day,” she added, wriggling her nose.

  “You’d … what?”

  “The whiskers. I want to scratch at them so badly I could scream.” Her voice was provocative and innocent at the same time. “That is what you were talking about?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Her eyes glinted through the openings of her black silk mask. “Is it too much to ask that you keep your mind on this assignment?”

  “Is it too much to remind you that I’ve been put in charge?” he replied with a fleeting sense of victory. “I happen to be your superior.”

  “No, Sebastien,” she said. “You surrendered that authority years ago.”

  “Well, I want it back.”

  “I’m not going to discuss this when we have work to do.”

  “Are you telling me how to carry out this preposterous mission?” he asked softly.

  Her lips curled into an alluring smile. “Are you able to stop staring at my tail long enough to succeed?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You were.”

  His gaze wandered over her shapely form. “Fine. I was.”

  “I knew it,” she whispered.

  “And I will again,” he promised her with a grin.

  “At least wait until after we’ve gotten the letter.”

  “Now that sounded like an invitation.”

  The band launched into another set.

  She danced around him, agile, evasive. “Behave yourself, baron.”

  “It was an invitation.” His blue eyes burned with confidence. “And, by the way, I accept.”

  He realized that she doubted him when he swore he’d make up for not being a decent husband. But had she fallen completely out of love with him?

  Chapter Two

  SPAIN SUMMER 1809

  If anyone had asked Miss Eleanor Prescott to describe her life on the day she met a lean, black-haired infantry captain named Sebastien Boscastle, she would have answered that she had stepped into the pages of a fairy tale.

  It hadn’t mattered that until then she had been passed off on dour relatives or sent to gloomy boarding schools, her destiny taken out of her hands by the well-meaning. It hadn’t even mattered that she had no inkling what her destiny might be.

  She recognized her fate the instant she looked up into the sultry blue eyes of the infantry officer who entered her father’s hospital station on that sweltering afternoon in Spain. He was the reason she’d braided jasmine in her hair early that morning, even though she’d never bothered before.

  “Have you been injured?” she’d asked, aware by his unabashed grin that there wasn’t a thing wrong with him.

  He took off his black bicorne hat. He had thick ebony hair and strong, sun-burnished features. The epaulettes of his scarlet infantry coat rested upon broad shoulders. He was tall, even taller than she was, and his spare frame filled the makeshift wooden station with understated power. A saber hung at his side.

  “Do I have to be injured to talk to you?”

  His deep, teasing voice gave her chills of delight.

  All the officers flirted. It was one of the reasons her father, Dr. Jason Prescott, a senior regimental surgeon in General Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army, had argued that she shouldn’t leave school to join him. Assisting at surgery was hard, heartbreaking work.

  But even her father hadn’t been able to refuse when she had been dismissed from Mrs. DeLacey’s Academy in Knightsbridge with a letter of regret claiming that she had no academic potential at all. She lacked the social grace to become a debutante. She couldn’t stay put in a chair long enough to even call herself a wallflower.

  The day she met Sebastien, her dismissal became a blessing instead of a disgrace. What did it matter if there were donkeys and dirty wagons in the background rather than a coach and four?

  No godmother at a fancy ball could have created a stronger magic. The dire predictions of her undesirability vanished. She knew about Sebastien from campaign gossip. The officers’ wives whispered that he was brave, and good-natured, which made him the worst kind of temptation. It was common knowledge in London that a Boscastle recognized no competition, and once one of his infamous family set his mind on a love conquest, the rest was history. Passion, these experienced ladies warned Eleanor in knowing whispers, appeared to have been passed through his breed’s ancient bloodlines.

  “Seduction is a strategy to men like him,” the lieutenant general’s niece informed her, not bothering to hide her envy. No matter what anyone said, Eleanor was impressed that he didn’t seem to be intimidated by her father’s reputation. It took nerve to enter a medical shelter for no other reason than to flirt with her.

  But then, he could probably sense from the way she agreed to talk to him that he had caught her interest.

  “Is there anything wrong with you?” she asked again, realizing that one of them should break the spell of staring at each other.

  “There might be,” he said wryly.

  She tried not to encourage him by laughing. She might have been able to resist his blue eyes. His easy charm targeted the chink in her armor. “Where?”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s my—my breathing. It’s stopped.”

  “This sounds very serious,” she said, biting her bottom lip. “It might even be contagious. I think we ought to find my father.”

  He stepped in front of her, looking abashed, but oh-so attractive. “I’m a fraud,” he confessed without warning.

  “I thought so,” she said quietly.

  He reached down toward the cot for his hat. “I suppose you want me to leave?” he asked awkwardly.

  She sighed. She wished he’d waited a little longer to admit the truth, which left her with no choice but to pretend she was offended. “It’s a good idea. I’m meant to be packing my father’s instrument case. And if
you aren’t in any pain—”

  He straightened. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. She wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t been studying him so intently.

  “But I am in pain,” he insisted, his blue eyes sincere. “I have been since I noticed you at the general’s dinner party the other night.”

  She swallowed a laugh. “That was you behind the screen?”

  “I thought I was rather subtle. But, well—I probably wasn’t thinking at all.”

  “Didn’t you knock over the tea urn the same evening?”

  His grin deepened. “You noticed that, too—you noticed me?”

  “I’d venture everyone in the hall did,” she said with a giggle. “Although all I saw of you was the back of your head.”

  “I would like you to see more of me—no, I meant—” His eyes glinted with rueful humor as she started to laugh in earnest. “I don’t usually knock things over.”

  “I imagine that’s a good trait in an officer.”

  “My name is Sebastien Boscastle, Baron of … of something or other.”

  “Are you a good baron or a bad one?”

  “Why don’t you judge for yourself?”

  “How?” she asked, laughing again at the glint in his eye, and the silly question. He had to be a good officer because she’d heard his promotion universally praised. His company stood in awe when he strode past. She was overwhelmed by him herself, and not because she hoped to move up in the ranks.

  But a bad baron was another thing. She envisioned dark-hearted warlords battling one another in medieval civil wars and bearing fainting brides up to impenetrable castle towers. There was no question that this man could hold his own as a warrior. But as to whether he was wicked enough to abduct a lady, well, it was unlikely she would ever know.

  “How am I supposed to judge you?” she asked, folding her arms. “There isn’t a castle close by for you to besiege. Not an English one, anyway.”

  He leaned his head toward hers. She knew right then that he wasn’t going to ask her to come outside and watch him shoot an olive from a fellow officer’s hat to impress her.