The Sinful Nights of a Nobleman Page 2

  “Did I not warn you he was the wildest of the family?” he would demand, forgetting that it was he who had chosen Devon as a potential husband, and not Jocelyn. “Are you not glad now that I did not force his hand?”

  To which Jocelyn would merely sigh or nod, or do both simultaneously while gazing outside at a world whose freedom beckoned more by the day. Her father could be both emotionally and physically cruel. He did not strike her now as often as he had when she was very young, but he rarely restrained himself from verbal abuse.

  It was evident that Jocelyn had no choice but to escape, and marriage was the most convenient option, even if she harbored no illusions about wedded bliss.

  Adam had promised to give her a surprise before the end of Lord Fernshaw’s party. Her closest friends predicted that he was about to tender a long-awaited marriage proposal. He’d only hinted at tying the knot before, but she suspected that he was ready to settle down. Quite frankly, she was ready to propose to him herself.

  One of the advantages in having spent her debutante years as a wallflower was that she’d been allowed the time and opportunity to study the game of romance. She’d watched as several of her previously calm-headed friends had fallen prey to gentlemen on the prowl.

  She might even have been the sort to succumb to seduction herself had her own father not been so blatantly unfaithful to his late wife, Jocelyn’s mother. To Jocelyn’s disgust he had continued conducting affairs up until and after her mother’s death.

  Even now he made no secret of the fact that he currently supported two mistresses, one of whom was expecting a child.

  Another child. Still, no matter how cruel or shallow-minded he was, her father had never been a man to shirk responsibility, and she had to concede he’d done his blustering best to prepare Jocelyn for her future.

  The best governesses. The best boarding schools. The best wardrobe. The best fiancé. Or second-best, the Boscastle he had chosen having delivered that unforgettable snub four years ago.

  The second-best choice was suddenly attempting to sneak up behind her. And she was attempting to act surprised as Adam’s arm encircled her waist and ungracefully spun her around.

  “There you are,” he whispered, burying his nose in her hair. “Umm. You smell like blancmange. I think I shall have to go back to the table for dessert. Smelling you makes me hungry.”

  “Now that’s a romantic confession,” she said with a laugh. “Is that your tactful way of telling me I’ve spilled food on myself?”

  “Have you?” His prominent chin brushed her cheek. “How disgusting you’ve become, Miss Lydbury. We shall have to buy you a bib and spoon-feed you before long.”

  She lifted her face to his, wrinkling her nose. He might not be as exciting as one of the Boscastle brothers, for which she ought to be grateful. He did not inspire her passionate instincts, and a proper young lady would not desire a suitor who did. But at least she could let down her guard in his company. And she trusted him. Adam was anything but a born heartbreaker.

  He was not anything like Lord Devon Boscastle.

  “When are you going to give me the surprise you promised?” she said softly.

  “By no later than tomorrow morning.”

  She sighed. “Not sooner?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She lowered her gaze. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I can’t tell you, but”—he leaned into her, his gray eyes darkening—“I can tell you that you’ll be surprised.”

  She had the most horrible urge to laugh. He was trying to be so serious. But…How unfair it was that she found herself suddenly making a comparison between his unassuming pleasantness and the chiseled masculinity of a certain rogue. The mere fact of noting the difference between the two men made her feel as if she were betraying Adam. Could he help it if he was a little on the dull side? Was he to be faulted because he did not make her heart race?

  “Are you going to kiss me like the other libertines at the party?” she whispered.

  He hesitated. It was obvious he didn’t know she was joking.

  “Just how many libertines have you kissed?”

  She would have teased him a little more, heaven knew he could be far too somber, had a deep and disturbingly familiar voice not drifted down the hallway.

  “We seem to have interrupted a little tête-a-tête, Mrs. Cranleigh. Can you imagine? What a sight to shame our innocent eyes. A pair of lovebirds stealing pecks in the corner. Whatever is the world coming to when the young branches of the aristocracy have twisted in this abhorrent direction?”

  “Don’t be such a naughty tease, Devon,” his female companion scolded, although Jocelyn was quick to perceive that there was more amusement than censure in her voice. “You’ll embarrass them.”

  He cleared his throat. “Oh, very well. Who the blazes are they, anyway?

  Jocelyn took a deep breath and turned. She was perfectly aware by the glitter in his eye that Devon had recognized her. Adam, to her regret, appeared to have absolutely no idea that he was being baited. He separated from her with such alacrity that he nearly fell over the brass telescope propped against the wall.

  “Chiswick,” Devon said in such a disparaging voice that Jocelyn felt compelled to spring to Adam’s defense. “You’re every bit as graceless now as you were in fencing school.”

  “He isn’t graceless at all,” she said as Adam rather ungracefully straightened from his undignified stumble into the telescope.

  “No?”

  Devon’s all-too-perceptive gaze assessed Adam’s guilty expression and awkward stance until it was all Jocelyn could do not to give him an elbow. Why now, of all times, did he have to retreat behind that blank submission? He had been a courageous enough officer during the war. Why did Devon Boscastle’s offhanded jab have to turn him into this…this tower of helpless treacle?

  Instantly, she castigated herself for the unkind analogy. Picturing the man she intended to marry as a portion of incapacitated pudding felt like an act of perfidy. But, really, shouldn’t he speak up for himself? Why did he allow Devon to unsettle him?

  “I’m sorry, Boscastle,” Adam finally said in a fashionably cool voice that Jocelyn could have applauded. “I had no idea you’d reserved this hallway for your personal use.”

  She beamed at him, whispering, “Well done.”

  Devon lifted his magnificently sculpted shoulders in a shrug of insouciance. “That’s quite all right, Chiswick.” His gaze cut straight to Jocelyn for a brief but meaningful moment. “I’ve already had my use of the hallway for the evening. I suppose it’s only fair to share.”

  She turned her head to answer Adam’s questioning stare. “I believe I’m ready for that breath of fresh air you mentioned.”

  “What breath—”

  She nudged him forward and swept down the hall, resisting the urge to acknowledge Devon’s grinning countenance. Mrs. Cranleigh gave her a wan smile. Jocelyn smiled back, despite the fact that she knew the widow had a reputation for wickedness that Devon Boscastle would surely exploit during the course of the party.

  It was several steps later before she became aware that Adam had not accompanied her. She pivoted, drawing a sharp breath at the scene unfolding behind her.

  Devon had evidently sidestepped Adam and taken him by the arm; his dark profile was superimposed over Adam’s in an attitude of unmistakable mischief.

  “Adam?” she asked evenly. “Are you accompanying me, or must I walk alone?”

  He didn’t answer. He was gazing up at Devon as if he’d just been given the Ark of the Covenant. The faintly awestruck grin on his face was off-putting. As was the realization of how, well, how short and stocky he appeared when standing in Devon’s shadow.

  Or was Devon so tall and leanly muscled that other men simply shrank in comparison?

  She edged a few inches closer to eavesdrop on their conversation. Then promptly wished she hadn’t.

  “Remember,” Devon was saying in an authoritative voice. “Firm hand
. As a cavalry officer, I can say with assurance that’s the secret, the only way to deal with her type.” And he smacked one of his own strong hands into the palm of the other to demonstrate his point. “Firm hand when you bridle her. After she comes to trust you, you have to mount her as often as possible until she’s broken in.”

  “Firm hand,” Adam repeated.

  “And mount her often.”

  Devon raised his head to regard Jocelyn with a gaze of imperturbable self-possession. “Do forgive us. We got caught up discussing our host’s young Arabian mare. Chiswick has confided in me that he’s considering purchasing her. I thought I might offer a few tips on how to break her in.”

  Adam flashed him a look of gratitude. “You remember that Devon also served in the cavalry, don’t you?”

  Jocelyn paused several heartbeats before answering. “Yes. But I don’t recall you expressing an interest in Alton’s Arabian.”

  “Well, a man doesn’t always wish to discuss such indelicate details with a lady.” Devon straightened in a way that seemed to diminish Adam by a few more inches. “After all, most women would rather chat about their frocks than horseflesh.”

  “Oh, Jocelyn likes horses well enough,” Adam said with unwitting guile. “She’s quite an expert equestrienne, you know. One could ask her almost anything about…about…”

  She coughed loudly to stop him before he was lured any deeper into Devon’s game. She could not believe how easily he’d let himself be caught, and with that blue-eyed satyr standing in the background as if he hadn’t instigated the whole thing. The most perplexing part was that she’d never seen Adam so nonplussed before. He usually kept his wits about him; in fact, one of his best qualities was his ability to stand calm while all his male friends behaved like fools.

  Devon Boscastle was obviously a bad influence. Judging by that unholy twinkle in his eye, Jocelyn had indeed escaped a dreadful fate when he had not appeared at her table all those years ago.

  Any woman who married Devon would never know a moment’s peace. But, a truly unwelcome voice whispered in the back of her mind, wouldn’t that woman also know pleasure—and be willing to pay the price?

  She expelled a sigh as Adam finally walked up beside her. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been made to look foolish. Devon had become a master of impropriety under the tutelage of his older brothers. Still, she expected more of the man she was to marry.

  “Why did you let him play you like that?” she asked in an undertone as the two of them fell in step.

  “Gracious, I’ve no idea. You aren’t angry at me, are you, Jocelyn?”

  She spared him a sidelong glance. He was attractive. He cared for her sensibilities. He was neither a scoundrel nor a gambler. A young lady could do far worse, and she didn’t exactly have suitors lined up asking for her hand.

  “No, I’m not angry.”

  And as they turned the corner to walk between two marble statues of Venus and Vulcan, she glanced back involuntarily at the man they had abandoned.

  Devon Boscastle.

  The destiny she had escaped—and wasn’t she fortunate? He was the one who deserved her anger. With a few careless remarks he had made Adam appear weak and even a little slow-witted. Which wasn’t at all a fair assessment of his character.

  Adam halted without warning. “How rude of me,” he said, pivoting. “Would you and Mrs. Cranleigh like to join us for a walk, Boscastle? Jocelyn has announced a need for some air.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “Don’t go encouraging him. Doesn’t the devil stand in wait for an invitation?”

  “I’m only being polite,” Adam whispered. “He stood up for me at school a few times. Kept the bullies at bay, you know.”

  No, she hadn’t known. She hadn’t really been willing to attribute any good qualities to Devon, who sauntered past her at that moment with a faint smile. “That’s quite all right, Chiswick. Mrs. Cranleigh and I plan to exercise some other options this evening.”

  “Just listen to him,” Jocelyn muttered. “No, don’t listen.”

  “Did you say something, Miss Lydbury?” Devon inquired.

  “She’s got something stuck in her throat,” Adam replied rather lamely. “One of those violet pastilles the girls use to sweeten their breath.”

  Devon raised his left hand. “Remember, Chiswick. Firm hand. Show her who’s the master.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “And mount her often.”

  Adam flushed brick-red and glanced edgewise at Jocelyn with a sheepish grin. Clenching her teeth, she grasped his arm to propel him forward.

  “Do you still wish to walk with me in the garden?” he asked without looking at her.

  “What do you think, Adam?”

  “I—”

  A few minutes later, their walk forgotten, they joined their friends in the main salon for champagne and an impromptu game of charades. Jocelyn and Adam naturally chose each other for partners and ended up putting on a pantomime of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.

  Jocelyn climbed the gallery above the salon and stood at the railing while Adam beseeched her with silent gesticulations from below. Of course, everyone guessed which characters they were pantomiming, but it was fun and even romantic to watch the pair of them play their parts until Adam tripped over a footstool and made his audience laugh, including Jocelyn.

  She knew he was the perfect man for her. A clumsy Romeo who respected her was worth more than a hundred unreliable rogues and their indecent offers. And she could only hope that friendship would be a strong enough foundation for the solid marriage upon which she had set her heart.

  Let the Lily Cranleighs of London engage in love affairs that were bound to come to a bad end.

  Jocelyn aspired to a peaceful life herself. Marriage. Family. Security. Self-worth. Escape from her father’s constant deprecations and insufferable conceit. There was no place in her dreams for a rogue no matter how much she had once wished it to be otherwise.

  Chapter Three

  Devon rested his shoulder against the enormous marble sculpture of a lion-drawn chariot that dominated the upper gallery. It was a secluded spot. He could stare down at the activity in the main salon all he wanted without being seen. A grin deepened the faint grooves that bracketed his mouth. He could even laugh out loud if he felt like it. And there was quite a bit to laugh about, actually.

  Chiswick had just tripped backward onto his tailbone, the most inelegant Romeo in the history of amateur theatrics. Jocelyn had rushed down the stairs to his rescue. Devon’s gaze idly followed her graceful descent.

  His brow arched in amusement.

  She was reaching down to put right the footstool that Adam had overturned. Adam was reaching out for…Jocelyn’s rear end. Devon snorted as the man below gave her bum a covert pat. Well, well. Was Jocelyn going to slap him, shove him back onto the floor?

  Devon leaned his forearms across the black-iron balustrade to watch. What would she do?

  Nothing.

  He shook his head. Perhaps she hadn’t even felt Adam’s sneaky pat. Perhaps it had been only an almost-fondling. A pat of the air, and not of Jocelyn’s roundly shaped rump. Perhaps, he mused, Adam had interpreted that ineffective gesture to be what Devon had meant by a firm hand.

  You’ll never ride her at that rate, he thought woefully. And for an instant he indulged his imagination in what it would take to pleasure the aloof Jocelyn in bed. He’d wager he could find a way to make her take notice.

  But could he make her forgive him, truly forgive him? Only now did it come back to him that the main reason he had refused that long-ago invitation was because he’d disliked her father and resented the man’s air of arrogant command. Devon hadn’t known Jocelyn well enough to say whether he’d enjoy her company or not.

  He wondered how she managed to stand her ground in the face of Sir Gideon’s dictatorial self-assertion. The soldiers who’d served under him despised the man, which did not necessarily make him a poor leader. But t
here had been whispers of cruelty under Gideon’s command, suppressed, of course, before they could be substantiated.

  It shouldn’t matter to Devon one way or the other. It didn’t really. Jocelyn appeared to be able to hold her own.

  And hold Devon’s interest, dammit. Why now of all times did that Boscastle instinct to both seduce and protect have to emerge and threaten to spoil the decadent fun he had planned? If Jocelyn needed protection at all, it was probably from men like himself.

  He was wild at heart and thought it was too late to change.

  He of all the Boscastle siblings had suffered the most from their mother’s death and their father’s shifting moods. Drake had borne the brunt of Royden Boscastle’s physical outbursts. Devon had learned to play peacemaker at an early age, and if it had not been for the overpowering support of his brothers and sisters, he could easily have drifted through life without anchor, without attachment.

  His soul had wandered afar for so long he did not hold hope it could be redeemed.

  “Spying on something interesting?”

  He glanced off to his side at Lily ascending the staircase, answering her with a grin. “The unplanned performance within the scheduled performance is one of the evening’s memorable moments.” He allowed his gaze to travel over her silk-swathed figure. “At least so far. I’m open to private play.”

  Lily came to stand beside him at the balustrade. “Why are you going out of your way to show Chiswick in a poor light? It’s not like you. Or am I mistaken?”

  His grin deepened. “I don’t have anything against old Chinny. I’m only making mock of him to vex Jocelyn.”

  She raised her fan and, like a duelist, directed it at his shoulder. “Why? What has she done to offend you?”

  He deflected the fan with a flick of his wrist. “I don’t know. Nothing, really, although her family has let it be well known that I’ve offended them.”

  “Is this a story I would enjoy?”

  “I was asked to dinner years ago by Sir Gideon Lydbury in an obvious invitation to a courtship. Not only did I have the bad grace to fail to appear, but I completely forgot to send either an excuse or apology afterward. In fact, I went away.”