A Wicked Lord at the Wedding (33 page)

The ton agreed that the Little Season had ended with enough gossip to tide them over until next year. An abduction plot had failed. The waggish Masquer had vanished into the autumn mists, and while no one knew what scandals would hibernate over winter, everyone hoped the entertaining rascal would return. An editorial in the
Times
asserted that having been unmasked, however, he might have lost his impetus.

To which Sebastien muttered, “And about time, too.”

Frankly Eleanor doubted the unfortunate fellow would ever appear again in his former guise.

She could barely squeeze into her comfortable gowns. She hated to admit it, but the costumes hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe would never be worn so dashingly again, if at all. At the rate her modest curves were expanding, even the carriage doors would have to be let out.

Her winter wardrobe was due to arrive any day. She hoped that Madame Devine designed with comfort
in mind, as well as romantic appeal. And that the seams could be altered to accommodate her pregnant figure. For now, she would suffer for appearances’ sake and not fasten her corset all the way.

On this, the first evening of December, she and Sebastien had dined en famille at the Kentish home of the Marquess and Marchioness of Sedgecroft. Sebastien had recounted Heath’s warning that the London Boscastles could overwhelm those quieter beings unaccustomed to their charisma. Thus advised, a woman not as demure as she appeared, Eleanor passed through the crested gates of the estate with her guard raised, and her appetite piqued.

Two days later, fortified by the culinary offerings of three French chefs and the warmth of a family who embraced her to their collective bosom, she walked contently up the stairs of her husband’s modest country manor in Sussex.

“Well,” Sebastien said, unraveling his neckcloth in their musty, unaired bedchamber. “That was my side of the family.” He glanced down meaningfully at the bump that barely showed beneath her cloak. He caressed it at least a dozen times a day. “Let’s see what the cauldron produces next.”

She sighed a trifle sadly. The house seemed so empty and cold. “I had always thought Mary would be here for my lying-in. What will happen to her?”

He took her hands, kissing her tapered fingertips. “Nothing dire, I promise. She betrayed you personally. She had no knowledge of the conspiracy. Her
conscience, I would guess, will be punishment enough. Heath has asked for leniency.”

She lifted her brow as he knelt to remove her shoes. “The Duchess has written to inform me that you’re to be made a viscount. You must have known. Why didn’t you announce it over supper last night? Your cousins would have celebrated the event.”

“I thought titles didn’t impress you.”

“That was before I realized that a child would change everything.”

“Having grown up with three brothers, I think that is an understatement.” He tucked her shoes neatly under the bed. She thought again how well they balanced each other. “What else impresses you?” he asked.

She padded to the windows. He hung his coat up in the wardrobe. “Let me think,” she said. “Husbands who come to one’s rescue at the last moment.”

His Hessian boots hit the floor, to be lined up beneath the desk. “Excellent. Do continue.”

She pursed her lips as he removed his waistcoat and unbuttoned his lawn shirt. “Husbands who are passionate. And who hang up their clothes.”

His neckcloth joined his other garments. “Yes. I thought I should assert my place.”

“Faithful husbands,” she said with a smile.

“Are there any other kind?” he asked in a velvet voice.

She glanced around.

He stood shirtless before her, a wicked baron, soon to become a viscount, one whose well-muscled
beauty quite took her breath away. “And—oh dear, what were we—”

Her gaze moved past him, lifting from his tempting attributes to stare at the portrait on the wall. “That’s Bellisant’s painting of me,” she exclaimed. “How did it end up here?”

“I had it sent ahead as a surprise,” he said, leaning his arm against the mantel to admire it.

“I thought you didn’t like his work.”

“The subject of this particular piece intrigues me. And reminds me of a promise I have made.” He smiled up briefly at the painted lady who stared across the room in artistic detachment. And then he walked forward to give his full attention to her earthly embodiment.

Her pulses beat erratically. “A new promise or an old one?”

“A little of both. On one hand, I have promised to place my family above all else.” His hands encircled her waist, drawing her against him. “On the other, I have promised the lady in that portrait that I shall remember she is a person never to be taken for granted. Or left alone for any unreasonable period of time.”

She turned into his arms. “I fear I should envy her then. You seem to have fallen in love with a shadow lady who does not exist.”

He closed his eyes. “If either of us wear another mask, let it only be to confound the world, not each other.”

“Agreed,” she whispered.

He caught her chin with his thumb, lifting her face to steal the first of endless kisses in the night. Shivers melted her spine. If the child inside her had softened her body and rendered her more vulnerable, Sebastien had grown all the stronger. She sought the closeness of his arms around her at every chance. It was true they had both wandered astray since their wedding day. Certainly a budding family would impose limits on their dangerous pursuits.

Three heartbeats now.

And the Boscastle line, in all its passion and infamy, continued.

It had taken Miss Harriet Gardner two years of intensive training in the social graces to become that mysterious creation known in polite Society as a gentlewoman. It took the stormy young Duke of Glenmorgan less than two days to undo months of discipline, of tears and sweat, to reawaken every gutter instinct Harriet had learned to subdue.

He stood in the doorway, silent, his presence so imposing that Harriet felt as if time had stopped. Suddenly the butler, the footmen, the maid bringing another platter of sandwiches for tea, seemed at a loss as to how they should proceed. They stared at Harriet, awaiting her direction.

But she was staring at the cloaked duke who must have wondered whether he’d arrived at a house of eccentrics. Raindrops slid from the brim of his black silk hat and ran into the faint lines carved into his cheeks. He glanced back at the carriage parked in the street. She studied his profile. He had a sharp blade of a nose and a cleft in his chin. When he turned again, his blue eyes cut straight to Harriet, riveting her to the spot.

He’s young
, she thought.
And he looks a proper beast
.

He wrenched off his sodden top hat. The thunderclap that accompanied this impatient gesture deepened the tension holding his audience spellbound.

“Is this or is this not Lady Lyon’s Academy for Young Ladies?” he demanded.

His voice, the deep, lyrical lilt, reminded Harriet of her duty. He was bringing his niece from the Welsh–English border to the academy in preparation for her presentation at court. Only a genuine peer claimed that honor. “Your grace,” Harriet said, sinking into a curtsy, “we are called the Scarfield Academy now. And—”

She lowered her gaze in embarrassment. The butler was bowing, the two footmen followed suit, and the maid dipped so deeply that her sandwiches slid to the edge of her tray. Harriet cringed. They must look like a collection of windup toys whose springs had gone askew.

“Well, whatever this place is called,” the duke said over Harriet’s head, “I hope that my aunt and niece might be allowed to take refuge from the storm.”

Harriet glanced up from his black mud-splattered Hessian boots and straightened instantly. Through the curtain of rain that shimmered in the open doorway, she could see his coachman conversing with the academy’s stable master. From the carriage, a silver-haired lady was waving a lace hand kerchief
at the house like a naval officer flagging a ship down in distress.

“I do apologize, Your grace.” She darted toward the door. “I shall bring them in straightaway.”

He stepped in front of her. “Have a footman attend to the task. With umbrellas if possible.” His disgruntled gaze seemed to absorb every detail of her appearance. “I’m in no mood to hear another lady complain that the wretched rain has ruined her hair.”

A test, Harriet told herself. This was one of those social trials that sooner or later a woman in her position must face. She would remain unmoved by his curt manner. She would stand, in her mentor’s words as, “a beacon of civility when battered by a storm of rudeness.”

What misfortune that Harriet had loved thunderstorms since her earliest years.