The Seduction of an English Scoundrel Page 2

  Jane dared another look. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “It is said,” Caroline whispered hurriedly, “that whenever a woman looks into those eyes for the first time, she is—oh, what am I saying. You already fell in love with a Boscastle, and your luck couldn’t get any worse than it is now. I am heartsick for you, Jane. I must say you are holding up admirably.”

  “It is a trial, Caroline.”

  “It must be. My word, three of Sedgecroft’s brothers here and a challenge has not been issued. It’s a miracle the chapel walls have not fallen down. I don’t know where one could find such a collection of imposing, troublemaking entities outside of Mount Olympus.”

  Jane smiled at that; she and her sisters all tended to wax dramatic under times of duress. Yet it was true. Most of the Boscastle brood did appear to be present for her public shaming. The four handsome men towered head and shoulders above the less physically endowed guests. Chatting and laughing at intervals, the three youngest lounged idly in their pews, while the marquess presided over them in all his leonine glory.

  She swallowed, feeling another shiver race down her spine. Sedgecroft’s entire demeanor bespoke irritation, and no wonder. He had extended his hospitality to host his cousin’s wedding, and by the look on his face, there would be the devil to pay for putting him out. Jane hoped to be hidden away before he lost his temper. She planned to make her escape as soon as possible.

  “Do you want me to find a vinaigrette for you?” Miranda asked in concern.

  “Whatever for?” Jane tore her gaze away from her intimidating golden-haired host.

  “You do look a trifle faint all of a sudden,” Caroline said in sympathy.

  That would be Sedgecroft’s fault, Jane thought with a stab of annoyance. Even halfway across the chapel she could sense he was a man who would not appreciate being inconvenienced. Heaven help her if he took it upon himself to personally investigate Nigel’s disappearance, although such a measure did not seem likely.

  He appeared to have his hands full enough keeping his own clan under control. Not to mention the two very attractive women who kept whispering to him in a way that suggested a strong personal association.

  “Save the vinaigrette for Nigel’s mother,” she whispered, her cheeks suddenly warm at the thought of Sedgecroft and his lovers witnessing her failed wedding. “I think she’s swooned at least five times in the past hour.”

  “I believe she’s taking this whole disaster harder then you are, Jane,” Caroline said pensively.

  “Jane is merely better at hiding her feelings,” Miranda whispered.

  A pall of silence fell. Jane stole another peek at Sedgecroft. He looked as restless as she felt. Then Simon asked, “Well, how much longer are we supposed to wait?”

  Jane reached down to tug the hem of her gown from beneath her father’s shoe. She felt as if she were sinking under the weight of her wedding garments. Socially speaking, of course, she was sunk.

  Probably no one who counted would want to wed her after this. Not unless she found a man brave enough to love her beyond reason. Her parents would never dare arrange another marriage. It seemed likely that they might even be afraid to meddle in her sisters’ affairs, thereby saving Caroline and Miranda from unhappy unions. The three of them would have to find husbands for themselves.

  Jane could barely restrain the impulse to hurl her bouquet in the air and let out a whoop of joy.

  The cloud of despair that had darkened the long months of her engagement began to dissipate. Sunshine peeked through. She had done it. She had actually eluded the fate she had dreaded.

  “Three hours,” her father muttered, staring in disbelief at his golden pocket watch. “That’s long enough. Simon, help me escort her to the carriage. One on either side of her in case she collapses from the humiliation.”

  Lady Belshire gazed around in horror. “Not in public, Howard. Think of all the common people outside, waiting to catch a glimpse of the wedding party. All they shall see is a . . . a collapsed bride.”

  “I shall walk out on my own,” Jane murmured, stung by a prick of guilt at the death of their dreams. Even though it meant the rebirth of her own secret hopes.

  This wedding had never been her dream. Nor had it been Nigel’s.

  In fact, at this very moment, Nigel was probably exchanging vows with the woman he had passionately desired for the past four years. The robust Boscastle governess who had dedicated a decade of her young life to supervising the wild clan at their country estate. Jane envied the two of them their future; despite the fact that Nigel’s father would surely cut him off without a penny, Nigel would spend his life with the woman he loved.

  And that woman had never been Jane. Nor had she loved him, except in the warmest, most affectionate manner. Marrying Nigel would have been tantamount to marrying a brother, a union that neither of them wished, although they had never been able to convince their parents of this.

  “What could Nigel be doing as we stand here like a party of proper idiots?” muttered her brother as he grabbed her arm to prop her up for the escape to the carriage.

  “Unhand me, Simon,” she whispered sharply. “I have never been the fainting sort in my life.”

  A huge shadow fell across the altar, and a profound silence suddenly engulfed the chapel, stilling whispers. An unnerving chill of foreboding swept through Jane’s willowy frame. The shocked expressions on her sisters’ faces heightened her presentiment of doom.

  “Oh,” Caroline whispered, her face as white as her sister’s wedding gown. “It’s him. Dear heaven.”

  “Him?” Jane whispered, her dark green eyes widening. “Which him?”

  Her brother had slipped away, dropping her arm as if it were a loaded pistol. He, too, was staring up at the shadow in a fascinating mix of dread and . . . respect.

  Her bridal bouquet crushed to her silk-laced décolletage like a shield, she turned to confront her fate. And stared up at the most indecently beautiful face she had ever seen.

  Him. The Most Honorable the Marquess of Sedgecroft.

  Sedgecroft, who cast a shadow that swallowed her up from her head to the tips of her wedding slippers. Sedgecroft of the stormy blue eyes and steel-muscled body, of a scoundrel’s fame and libertine lifestyle, the most charming rascal to entertain the scandal-loving ton. The man in whose chapel she had hoped to pull off her daring scheme. Sedgecroft looking embarrassed and capable and—

  What on earth could he be doing at the altar?

  She felt the wild palpitations of her heart against the rose petals that she held in a death grip. The strangest thoughts raced inside her mind. She decided a sculptor would have delighted in chiseling Sedgecroft’s face, all those proud bones and hard angles, that cleft chin.

  Not to mention that sinfully molded mouth, and his manly shoulders. Jane tried to estimate how much broadcloth his tailor would require to stretch across the musculature of his back. And was it true that he and his last mistress had once made love in the Tower?

  His deep voice startled her from her embarrassing reverie. “I am profoundly ashamed.”

  Ashamed? He was ashamed? Well, he probably had a hundred good reasons for confessing this, but none unfortunately in which Jane had taken part. She shared a bewildered glance with her sisters. “I beg your pardon. You said you were—”

  “Ashamed. On my cousin’s behalf. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Do?”

  “Yes. About this”—he swept his large hand through the air—“this sad affair.”

  “I think I can manage,” Jane replied, then added, “but it is nice of you to offer.”

  His low pleasant voice sent a peculiar wash of heat swirling through her veins. She had expected a man of his reputation to deny any responsibility in the matter. Not to offer personal assistance. She wondered if he used this endearingly concerned manner with his bevy of love-stricken mistresses and admirers. What an effective way to melt a woman’s heart.

  Her father bustled betw
een them. “We’re facing a tactical problem, Sedgecroft—how to get her to the carriage through the crush outside.”

  Sedgecroft glanced appraisingly at Jane, an experienced look that seemed to penetrate to her bare bones, to all her wicked secrets, to her most private hopes and fears. “That is not a problem. She may go through the vestry door and use one of my carriages. Unless for some reason you prefer your own vehicle.” He paused, studying Jane again. “I could escort her through the gates myself. I could carry her, if it comes to that. That would give the populace a reason to talk.”

  Caroline drew a breath, and Miranda’s eyes widened in amused disbelief. Jane groped for Simon’s arm, clasping his wrist in such panic that he turned to frown at her.

  “Help,” she whispered weakly.

  “I thought you had never fainted in your life,” he muttered.

  She raised her bouquet to whisper back. “This might be the day I make an exception. Could he be serious?”

  A glimmer of admiration lit Simon’s eyes. “With Sedgecroft, one can never be sure. I’ve seen him bluff his way at cards to win a fortune.”

  She stole another glance at that magnificent face and recognized the traces of good humor that the marquess had presumably suppressed, perhaps out of concern for her feelings. She was again pleasantly surprised. Rumors of his family’s rash behavior had circulated in the ton’s drawing rooms for years.

  “I do not think it will be necessary to carry me,” she said, although under different circumstances a woman might certainly have been tempted to take him up on the offer.

  “No?”

  She was horrified at the hot blush that burned her neck as she looked into his blue eyes and found herself captured by a sensual appeal that he seemed to exude almost as second nature. Jane might have been completely overwhelmed by all this blatant male charm if she hadn’t been so intent on bringing the situation to an end.

  Carry her to the carriage, indeed. Talk about creating a scandal. Although she had to admit those proud shoulders of his looked more then capable of the job—oh, what was she thinking? This was hardly the time or place to go to pieces over a handsome stranger.

  “I am prepared to walk to the carriage and face the crowds,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said, his voice polite and deferential.

  Lord Belshire gave the marquess an anxious look. “I don’t suppose you know anything about where Nigel is.”

  A cold determination settled on Grayson’s face. His reply struck straight to the center of Jane’s heart.

  “I intend to find out what happened today, believe me.” He looked directly at Jane, as if trying to penetrate the shadows of the wedding veil that framed her face. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but please tell me—did you and Nigel have a fight by any chance?” he asked.

  She shook her head slowly. She and Nigel had parted the best of friends, in complete agreement that they did not belong together as man and wife. “No. No fights.”

  Sedgecroft pursed his lips as if he suspected something vital had been omitted from her response. “No little lovers’ quarrel that you might have forgotten in all the excitement? No misunderstandings?”

  Jane took a moment to answer, murmuring, “Nigel and I understood each other perfectly.”

  “He must be dead,” Lady Belshire said, gazing disconsolately around the chapel. “Jane, I think it would be wise to accept Sedgecroft’s kind offer.”

  Jane looked aghast. “Mama, I am not going to be borne through the crowds like a . . . a football.”

  Lady Belshire fanned her pink cheeks in embarrassment. “I meant his offer of the carriage, Jane. My goodness, there is no need for the common folk to be gossiping over this.”

  Lord Belshire gave his wife a grim smile. “Steel yourself, Athena. The story will be printed in all its nasty scandal in the evening papers. There is nothing to do but brazen it out as best we can. Sedgecroft?”

  The marquess stirred, as if wondering how he’d managed to become personally involved in this family drama.

  “One of my brothers will escort your daughter home while I take care of matters here,” he answered. “The guests may as well enjoy the wedding breakfast.” He squared his impressive shoulders, his gaze burning with a blue fire that took Jane’s breath away. “I will make this right,” he added softly, his voice underlaid with all the arrogance of his aristocratic background.

  For a dangerous moment Jane almost laughed out loud. Here she stood at the altar with an infamous rogue who had never spoken two words to her in her life, vowing to avenge a wrong that had actually not occurred.

  The promise might certainly be meant to reassure her, given by a man who had probably never accepted a rejection in his life. Instead, it had the opposite effect. Rather than feeling comforted, every self-protective instinct that Jane possessed came hurtling forward in warning.

  By sabotaging her own marriage, she had thought to make herself safe. Instead, a danger far more insidious than any she could have previously imagined stood before her. Indeed, her scheme today might have brought her to the very gates of hell . . . with the devil himself waiting to claim her deceptive soul.

  Chapter 2

  Weed, the senior footman in Sedgecroft’s London residence, reported to his master less than an hour later in the huge reception hall. Here, beneath a domed ceiling the wedding breakfast had been laid out in a splendor of sparkling crystal, Sèvres china, and polished silverware on crisp white linen tablecloths. After a spell of awkward hesitation, the guests had attacked the lobster salad and champagne as if everything were perfectly normal.

  As if the high-backed Chippendale chairs reserved for the bride and bridegroom were not sadly empty.

  As if their toplofty host were not presiding over the celebration like a medieval warlord who had ordered his vassals to enjoy themselves while he brooded on plans for his revenge.

  “I did as you asked,” Weed said in an undertone, bending over Grayson on the pretext of refilling his champagne glass. “Our pigeon has flown the coop.”

  Grayson’s face tightened dangerously. He had little tolerance for a man who lacked the guts to fulfill whatever promises he had been foolish enough to make, especially when that man was a family relation who had used Grayson’s chapel to commit his social crime. “Are you certain?”

  “His wardrobe and drawers have been emptied, my lord. The servants claimed to have no inkling of his plans—his valet reported the bed unoccupied when he brought up the shaving water earlier this morning. Seeing as Sir Nigel’s carriage was still on the premises, everyone assumed he’d gone for an early-morning walk to calm his nerves.”

  “And never returned,” Grayson said in contempt, his opinion of his cousin lowering by the minute. It might have been better all the way around if Nigel had been run over by a hackney or some sort of ridiculous excuse for leaving that young woman at the altar.

  “I suppose there is still the possibility of foul play,” Weed said doubtfully.

  Grayson’s brother, Heath, sauntered up to the other side of the chair. “What has happened?” he asked quietly, smiling at the guests who watched him, matrons marking him as a desirable target for their unwed daughters, assuming his elusive heart could be caught. The marquess, of course, would rank first on their list, but no eligible young woman had yet attracted his eye, either, although many had gone to preposterous lengths in this pursuit.

  The taming of the Boscastle clan and ensuing matrimonial capture challenged a good many of the ton’s wedlock-obsessed mamas. All that wealth, those excessive good looks, their generosity to the few they held dear . . .

  “Nigel’s gone missing on us,” Grayson said, his tapered fingers curled around the scrolled stem of his glass.

  “Missing?” Heath gave a cynical laugh. “In the middle of London on his wedding day? I do not think so.”

  Grayson arched his brow. “Nor do I. The point is, he cannot be found. The question remains, why.”

  Heath folded his ar
ms across his chest. “We shall need a Bow Street man.”

  “No,” Grayson said quietly, torn between family loyalty and the odd sense of responsibility he felt for the whole unhappy affair. If Belshire’s daughter had thrown a tantrum or wept piteously, he might not have been so touched by her abandonment. But her composed acceptance challenged him to defend her. Why? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps because no one else appeared likely to assume that role.

  He added, “If the rascal has decamped on us and is not lying dead in a gutter, it is and shall remain a family affair.”

  “Yes,” Heath murmured. “And so we keep it quiet. Well, as quiet as possible considering the fact that half of London already knows by now what he did.”

  Grayson’s eyes narrowed. He’d never had any patience with the small-mindedness of society. It brought out a beastly urge in him to act on his most shocking impulses just to show he did not care. The trouble was, he was no longer the prodigal son who could behave however he pleased.

  He said, “Gossip is best dealt with by being ignored. His parents are utterly crushed, to say nothing of the bride. I suppose it’s up to me to smooth things down for the family.”

  “You, Gray, a peacemaker? Now there’s a lightning bolt from the heavens. I do believe I like it.”

  None of the six remaining siblings had accustomed themselves to the drastic shift the past year had wrought in the Boscastle hierarchy. Their father had appeared in excellent health until two months before his death. Everyone had expected the old tyrant to go on for decades. And when their youngest brother, Brandon, had been killed while protecting British interests in Nepal, it seemed impossible such a hale young man would not return.

  The family had still not recovered from the shock. The reins of responsibility had been tossed into Grayson’s lap before he realized quite what had happened. In fact, he had been on his way to China when the news of his father’s untimely demise was delivered.

  Almost overnight he had been forced to abandon his private pursuits and settle his abundant energy on the management of his vast estates. Boxing, drinking, steeplechasing, traveling to exotic lands in the name of business would have to wait. His time was taken up with finances, family affairs, the pension for his ailing aunts, and the countless charities his parents had supported.