The Wedding Night of an English Rogue Read online

  “What if someone notices we’re missing?” she asked, her gaze on his face.

  “You were doing a good deed,” he said, his fingers sinking deeper, his mouth sliding down her throat. He feasted on her creamy skin, filled his senses.

  She laughed. “A good deed?”

  “Yes.” He grinned at her. “You were reading to the man you wounded.”

  She lowered her gaze to study his shoulders, his bare chest and belly. “There isn’t a thing wrong with you.”

  “Except the hole in my shoulder.”

  He hadn’t given much thought on that sultry afternoon to the rest of his life. He was going to war and knew he might not return. It was a miracle, considering how rashly they’d behaved, that he hadn’t ruined her completely. If he’d acted on his animal instincts, he would have coaxed her to sleep with him. But sanity returned to them both in time. He didn’t want to hurt her.

  He’d helped her dress, conscious of how long they had been missing. “I’ll look for you tonight at supper.”

  She let him kiss her one last time at the door. They lingered, bodies flushed, aroused to the point of aching awareness. “Don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Please, don’t tell anyone.”

  He sighed into her neck, breathing deeply of her scent. He wanted her to stay with him, didn’t want to unlock the door. “Never.”

  “Promise?”

  He caught her strong chin in his hand. “I promise, but I want to see you again. I have to.”

  But he hadn’t. She had not shown up at dinner that evening, claiming she caught a cold. He considered going to her father, making a confession, demanding her hand in marriage.

  But she’d made him promise he wouldn’t tell.

  And he hadn’t.

  But sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he had.

  Until this evening he’d assumed he would never see her again. Years had gone by since they had sworn to avoid each other. She had married another man and left Heath to nurse a wounded shoulder as well as bruised feelings. More than likely she had done her best to forget what had happened.

  “The problem,” Russell said in irritation, breaking the silence between them, “is that Julia believes she can take care of herself. She always has.”

  “Perhaps she can.”

  “Not against a cold-blooded assassin.” Russell straightened the edge of his black silk eye patch. Heath was not sure whether this was a nervous gesture or a not-so-subtle reminder of what Russell had sacrificed to save a friend.

  “She shot a man in India; did you know that?” Russell asked.

  Heath hadn’t known. He’d thought her lost to him forever. He had not wanted to hear the details of her married life in a foreign land. He was not a good loser at love. He had convinced himself he did not care.

  “A sepoy?” he asked.

  “No. A drunk English soldier who was assaulting one of her maids. She shot him right in the arse.”

  Heath laughed. “I hadn’t heard.” He wasn’t surprised though.

  “Thank God it isn’t common knowledge,” Russell said with feeling. “It’s not the type of thing a decent young woman would brag about.”

  “You hold it against her?”

  “Or course I don’t,” Russell retorted with a boyish smirk. “But there’s no need for the civilized world to know I’m besotted with a damn Amazon, is there? Let that be our little secret.”

  Heath raised a brow. Besotted. She did that to a man. “I shan’t tell a soul.”

  “I know that, too.” Russell broke into an insulting grin. “She shot you in the shoulder once, too, didn’t she?” He started to laugh. “God, I’d almost forgotten. That was a time. You wallowing in the muck, white as a ghost, and Julia certain she had killed you. I thought at first there was something else going on between you. I was livid with jealousy. It looked as if she were lying on top of you.”

  Heath paused. The image remained vivid in his mind. Mud, pain, blood, Julia leaning over him with those clear gray eyes and her luscious, tempting body. “I remember you laughing your head off when you realized what had happened.”

  “I think that was the day I decided that I would marry her if I married anyone at all.”

  Heath glanced down at the ballroom, his expression unchanged. There was a woman attempting to hide behind one of the columns below the balcony. He couldn’t see her face, but there was something about her that caught his interest. What the devil was she doing? Playing hide-and-seek? “You and half the men at the party.”

  “Except you.” Russell leaned his elbow against the balustrade. Light from the multitiered crystal chandelier illuminated half his face; shadow blurred the rugged contours of the rest. Part hero, part cad. He was a human being with flaws, and Heath knew this, knew he was probably no better at heart. Russell had not had the easy Boscastle upbringing. He had practically pulled himself out of the gutter to achieve his success, and he was a damned fine soldier. “You and Julia took an active dislike to each other, didn’t you? I suppose it’s natural. The pair of you are complete opposites.”

  “I did not—do not—dislike Julia.”

  “You most certainly did. I have never seen a man and woman go to such amusing lengths to avoid each other. Julia made me switch places with her at the dinner table that night so she wouldn’t have to talk to you. And then she never showed up. She left the next day, and I lost her. At least until her husband had the consideration to get himself killed in an uprising.”

  Heath shook his head. Time had been good to Russell, carving masculine angles in his face to replace the pleasant boyish appeal of his youth. Of course the eye patch, added to his reputation for death-defying heroics, had enchanted England’s female population. At heart though, Russell remained the same rough-around-the-edges, likable bastard he had always been.

  But he had saved Heath’s life once. And he would probably do it again without a second thought. He was a brave man for all his shortcomings.

  Heath nodded distractedly at a friend who had just walked beneath the balcony. He should have known the day would come when Russell would take advantage of his rank, their friendship. But in his wildest dreams he hadn’t expected it would involve Julia Hepworth.

  He was astonished to discover that his feelings for her had remained this raw, this bittersweet . . . this ambivalent. He’d believed her memory to be buried beneath the many other issues of his past that were best left undisturbed. He didn’t particularly care to be reminded of what he’d lost.

  “If she and I are so ill suited, well, that’s all the more reason why we should not spend time in each other’s company.”

  Heath waited for a response, watching the graceful movements of the waltz below them. He could feel Russell appraising him, thinking, reshaping his strategy. Apparently he no longer harbored suspicions about what had happened between Heath and Julia years ago. Perhaps his sense of self would not allow him to imagine that the woman he planned to marry might have been involved with one of his friends.

  “You owe me, Boscastle,” he said in a quiet, deliberate voice. “I’m calling in the favor. I only want you to do this for a month.”

  Heath’s blue eyes darkened. A month with Julia? He hadn’t been able to trust himself with her for a few hours. “I had plans to go to Paris.”

  “Did Wellington’s staff invite you to help play ambassador?”

  Heath almost laughed. Russell was so predictably ambitious. “Worried you’ll miss an opportunity?”

  “This is an opportunity. Help me to catch Auclair and I guarantee you shall be rewarded.”

  “For playing nursemaid to your fiancée? Do they give medals for that? What am I to do, stop Julia from shooting someone? Are you serious?”

  Russell smiled without warmth. “Are you a man of your word?”

  A man of his word. He was, and always had been. It was his one infallible code in a world of war and chaos, the lodestar to follow when he began to lose his way. And the ir
ony of it was that this one virtue, or flaw, prevented him from confessing why he had to refuse.

  To explain the truth meant breaking his word to Julia. It would damage Russell’s opinion of her. It would conceivably bring a dramatic end to their engagement. Heath would appear to be a cad, a scoundrel, a seductor of young ladies who kissed and told. He’d rather cut off his left foot. It would probably be less painful.

  He shook his head in resignation. Hoisted with his own honor. That should humble him for thinking himself so bloody self-righteous.

  Russell started to laugh. “For a moment I thought you would refuse. Why don’t you go downstairs and talk to her? Make friends.”

  “You’ve told her?” he asked, amazed at Russell’s arrogance.

  “Yes. You try keeping a secret from Julia.”

  “How did she react?”

  “I don’t think she quite believed I—”

  Aware of furtive movement on the stairs, both men turned at the same instant. A young footman in dark livery glanced up with an air of self-importance as he approached.

  “This came for you, Sir Russell. The earl directed me to find you.”

  Russell unfolded the sealed letter and read it. “Auclair has just left for the country,” he said with a soft curse. “I don’t have time to convince you, Boscastle. You have to do this. It seems I’ll be in Paris before you.”

  “Playing up to Wellington?”

  Russell shot him a frown. “You do remember what she looks like, don’t you?”

  “I remember,” he said in a clipped voice.

  Not only did Heath remember what Julia looked like, he also remembered the spellbinding pitch of her voice, her easy laugh, the texture of her skin. He remembered the glint of gold in her red hair. And how her hair had fallen across his bare chest like a mermaid’s net, alluring and sensual.

  It seemed as if he had been attracted to her since, well, since forever. Since before his sexual tastes had grown jaded, leaving him empty, unfulfilled. She had not been the first or the last woman he’d seduced. But she was the one who had left the deepest mark on his memory. The one who had left him hungry, aching for more of her, curious to know what could have been.

  No one else in the world knew that, of course, including Julia. He had not even told his brothers of his feelings. Heath kept his personal affairs and desires to himself. He’d take his secrets to the grave before getting potted at the club or bawling his eyes out on some whore’s perfumed shoulder.

  His thick black eyebrows met in a scowl. “When are you leaving?”

  “In a few hours. He isn’t going to get away.”

  Chapter 2

  Julia stood concealed behind one of the columns in the ballroom, watching the two men on the balcony above her. It was impossible to decipher their conversation. She could hardly see their faces from this distance, but she would have recognized Heath Boscastle anywhere. The handsome devil still drew attention. Several debutantes, in fact, had made a show of walking back and forth directly beneath him.

  Her fiancé was drawing attention, too. Julia frowned as two giggling young women stopped directly in front of her.

  “Do you think they noticed us?” one of them whispered.

  Her friend glanced up at the balcony. “Boscastle is looking right at me.”

  “What about Sir Russell?”

  “I heard he’d gotten engaged, but he’s looking, too.”

  “Let’s look back. They’re like gods.”

  Julia cleared her throat. The two younger women appeared startled, taking a step into each other. “Ladies,” she said rather coolly, “haven’t you been told that it is not only impolite but unforgivably forward to stare—even at the gods.”

  As they scurried away, duly shamed, Julia, hypocrite that she was, resumed staring at the two compelling figures on the balcony. They couldn’t be discussing her all this time. They seemed perfectly calm, which meant that Heath could not have told Russell their secret.

  Heath looked down to the exact spot where she stood. She slipped back behind the column. If Russell found out what had happened between her and Heath years ago, he would be understandably appalled. The mere fact that Julia had kept it a secret would seem to compound her guilt.

  She had good cause to feel guilty. For heaven’s sake, she had shot a man and practically invited him to ruin her all in one unforgettable day.

  Her blood still went cold when she remembered Heath lying between the rocks, silent and unmoving. How relieved she’d felt when she had flung herself down on the ground and discovered him still alive. Very much alive, in fact. His blue eyes had seared her like a naked flame, disbelieving, furious . . . and disconcertingly male.

  She’d had the distinct feeling he was undressing her with those eyes despite the fact that she could have blown him to kingdom come.

  “You shot me.”

  “Well, no wonder.” She was terrified. He had a magnificent body, and she’d probably scarred one of those muscular shoulders. Her father would hide her gun again. “What were you doing jumping out at me from behind that cairn?”

  “I thought you were someone I knew.”

  “Well, I thought you were the rabid fox that had attacked the livestock last night.”

  “Do I look like a rabid fox?” he demanded.

  No, she thought, biting the tip of her tongue. He looked like a lean, angry wolf who would leap up at any moment and eat her. Even wounded he gave the impression of dangerous strength. And sensual appeal. She had been warned about him, of course. Every debutante wished to snare a Boscastle. Well, she had just shot one. Did that count?

  Then, to make matters worse, she had proceeded to pull off his shirt. Her relief that the wound was only superficial gave way to a sting of pleased shock to discover that he was every bit as gorgeous as she’d suspected.

  “It doesn’t look as bad as I feared.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  She was beginning to feel better. She hadn’t really hurt him. “I am sorry.”

  And that had been the start of it. A humiliating incident that had led to the most magical interlude she had ever experienced.

  The eroticism of his kisses, the sinful thrill of being captured against that hard male body, still haunted her like a sensual dream. She’d never imagined, before or since, that she could respond to a man that way.

  She certainly couldn’t imagine what she would say when she came face-to-face with him tonight.

  But she was about to find out.

  Sometimes, examining how her life had turned out, she wished he had told. She might never have gone to India. Her father would probably have forced her to marry Heath and advised them to make the best of it. She would never have shot that soldier in the buttocks. Of all her sins, that was the one that had shocked Society the most.

  She realized in alarm that he and Russell had left the balcony. That Heath was suddenly standing at the opposite end of the hall. Just that one glance at his profile, the hawklike nose and strong, clefted chin, made her heart beat a little faster. She leaned against the wall, watching him in resentful fascination. Why couldn’t he have grown fat, or lost his teeth? Perhaps he had. She could not properly see his mouth from where she stood. She remembered it, though. His firm, sensual lips with the small white scar, his beguiling smirk, the dizzying kisses they had shared.

  She had never met a man who possessed the lethal elegance of Heath Boscastle, or who even came close. A man who had once seduced her down to her stockings at a hunting party when they both had been too young to know better. Or had it been the other way around? Had she clumsily attempted to seduce him? Wild Miss Hepworth her friends had called her in those days. They probably called her far worse now. The Wicked Lady Whitby.

  She’d had plenty of time to reflect on what had happened between her and Heath. Years, in fact, for reflection and regrets. Naughty woman that she was, there were moments when her truest regret was that the two of them had not followed their heated encounter to t
he end. She hadn’t always felt like that. It had taken a lonely marriage to make her face what she had wanted, what she could have had. That there wasn’t only one path to contentment.

  But on the day that she and Heath had parted, she had felt only an overriding panic and a guilty relief that they had stopped themselves before anyone discovered them.

  And that he had kept his promise he’d never tell.

  Heath was coming closer.

  He walked toward the column with the same languid grace that had once set her nerves on fire, that took her breath away even now. He was tall, broader in the shoulder, than she recalled, a little leaner perhaps, but still dangerously attractive in a long-tailed black evening coat and pantaloons. Older, more experienced, more on edge, as elusive to the female heart as ever. Her throat closed as she stared at him. She’d believed she would never see him again. The ache of unresolved feelings inside her made her wish that she had not. It hurt to realize what might have been. And yet she could not deny the anticipation that rose inside her. Clever, handsome, an irresistible rogue. How silly to assume he would remain preserved as he was in her memory.

  Six years, she thought, astonished that so much time had passed. She had been married and widowed in India. She had seen a side of life that the haut ton could only read about in the newspaper and gasp at in horror.

  What had Heath heard about her?

  She knew he could see her, that he was perfectly aware of who she was. His stride was unhurried, yet powerful.

  Did he remember what they had done together that day in the library?

  She steeled herself to look up into his heartbreakingly beautiful face, the chiseled features, the hard, sculpted chin. His dark blue eyes danced with restrained amusement, answering both her unspoken questions. He stopped as she stepped into his path.