His Sinful Secret (7 page)

As if he sensed her regard, he turned then and their gazes locked for a long, telling moment. A flush of heat touched her cheeks and a flicker of what could only be panic stirred in the pit of her stomach. To make matters worse, the music ended and he began to thread purposefully through the crowd toward her.

When Michael Hepburn moved with such determination, people scooted aside.

A cowardly impulse made her want to turn and run, but she didn’t, though her fingers tightened momentarily on her father’s arm.

Her husband reached them, nodded at his new father-in-law, and gently but firmly removed her hand from her father’s sleeve. “It’s getting quite late and you haven’t had a chance to as much as sit down.”

Such solicitude was nice, but the implication he had paid that much attention made her stomach do another very strange twist. If he had watched her, she hadn’t noticed.

The statement—made in a very pragmatic, calm tone—was true, and the stuffy ballroom with the glittering guests had begun to overpower her, or maybe it was simply the persistent nervous tension. Either way, even though he hadn’t said she should retire, it was definitely implied in the possessive grasp of his long, graceful fingers around her hand. As impossible as it was to do, she found she nodded in agreement.

“I’ll escort you upstairs.”

“I shall see you soon, my dear.” Her father kissed her cheek and left.

She was barely aware of his discreet departure. It was symbolic of her changed circumstances, of his abdication of responsibility. Julianne didn’t resist as her new husband urged her through the milling guests, and she must have responded appropriately to the scattered well-wishes, but the actual words didn’t really register.

Once they were out in the hall, she heard Michael take a deep breath. “What a crush. I’m not sure what my mother was thinking when she invited all of London proper.”

The mutter wrung a nervous laugh from her. “I suppose we should be flattered so many attended the wedding.”

“I suppose.” He guided her along the polished hallway, nodding at a footman as they passed by.

“You needn’t take me.” Julianne was all too conscious of his hand, which now was firm at the small of her back.

A quixotic smile curved his mouth. “How would you even know where our apartments are? This house is definitely one of my ancestors’ more ostentatious architectural displays. I think there are over thirty bedrooms. You would get lost.
I’ve
gotten lost. I don’t spend much time here.”

It was an inarguable point. But . . .
our?
It sounded so final.

Her mouth was dry. “A servant could—”

“Probably.” He smoothly cut her off. “But I am as anxious to get out of the celebration as you are, if not more so. Let me escort you and we can both escape. I am afraid I’m not social by nature.”

That she could believe. He had little of Harry’s easygoing charm or gregarious tendencies.

The faint sound of music and laughter followed them, fading as they passed by the massive main hall and headed toward a graceful, curved staircase. Julianne hesitated at the bottom for a telling moment and Michael also stopped, doing nothing but gazing at her with inscrutable inquiry.

If she placed her foot on that first step, she’d acknowledge she was going to go upstairs with this man she barely knew.

Could she do it?

She just wasn’t sure.

But yet she lifted her foot and began to climb.

If he wasn’t ashen pale, he’d be surprised. Such bad timing. Michael conceded he had to deal with an uncertain young bride and her virginal fears and he hoped it was possible to manage it with some measure of patience and finesse. Though she’d acquitted herself well for one so young at the reception,
he’d
been a bit taken aback by the ungodly crush, and he was leagues more experienced at dealing with such functions. The tension in her slender form as they stood in the receiving line, and later, when she danced with just about every man in the room, was unmistakable to one paying close attention.

And he had been. It was a surprise, but
he had been
.

Between that preoccupation and the vicious gash in his side, he hadn’t much enjoyed himself, but he had to acknowledge, now that it was done, that he’d watched his new wife.

The dancing had him breaking out in a light sweat that had nothing to do with the exertion required but the pain of his wound. When Malcolm Sutton had clapped him on the back earlier in congratulations, it was all he could do to not show a reaction to his new brother-in-law’s enthusiasm, and he was fairly sure he was bleeding under all the layers of bandages and clothing.

Fitzhugh would tell him it served him right for refusing to see a physician. All he was concerned about at the moment was getting through the next few hours. A little bit of sleep would be nice, too. Though he could operate efficiently with very little rest, his injured state and the strain of the past few days had taken their toll. He wanted to fall into a bed for practical purposes other than attempting to seduce a nervous virgin.

Yet if it was his sense of family obligation that led to this marriage, he had to see it through.

Normally not such a hardship, not considering Julianne’s beauty, but he was hurt, tired, and about to bed his brother’s intended.

Next to him, her bosom lifting just a bit quickly under the sumptuous material of her gown, if his new wife was trying to hide her apprehension, she was not succeeding very well. Her fragile features were washed with a hint of pink, bringing the term
blushing bride
to the forefront of his thoughts, and she trembled a fraction as they gained the second floor.

Their suite of rooms was in the family wing at the end of the second hallway. Michael guided her through the formal sitting area, decorated elegantly with silk-covered chairs, rich Turkish rugs in patterns of pale green and cream, and his own recent contribution, an ornate carved table he’d had sent over from Spain. It had once belonged to a Spanish don who claimed it was a gift from Queen Isabella to his illustrious family. It was a beautiful piece, to be sure, so maybe the story was true, but even without the provenance of its royal history, Michael had purchased the piece because it appealed to him in an aesthetic sense. The relief of a spreading sunset on the top was done so cleverly he could believe it was a work of art commissioned by a monarch.

Maybe at some other time Julianne will notice it and make a comment,
he thought in wry amusement, but he doubted she even saw their surroundings. He took her to the door of what was now her bedroom and relinquished her to the hovering maid, a plump girl who blushed just as deeply as his obviously uneasy bride, at the sight of him.

“I’ll give you half an hour.”

He did so, tempering the tone of his voice. “I’ll be in there.” He gestured at the door that separated their bedrooms. “Please let me know when you are ready to retire.”

Julianne just looked at him with her enormous dark blue eyes, her lush lashes lowered a fraction. “Yes, my lord. Whatever you wish.”

The capitulation sounded all wrong, like he had just ordered her to sleep with him. Certainly he had conjugal rights, but he preferred eagerness in the bedroom, not resigned agreement. Still, it was a bit hard to concentrate on seduction when his injured body protested all the activity, and the glasses of champagne he’d consumed hadn’t helped either. Normally he was very circumspect in his consumption of liquor. A man in his position couldn’t afford to be impaired often.

“Please, call me Michael.”

Breathtaking in pale blue, her dark, shining hair gathered in an intricate knot of some kind, pearls competing for luster with her flawless skin, she gave the barest nod. “Of course. If you wish.”

The hushed tone of her voice spoke more than the words, and as the door closed behind her he stifled a curse that was definitely not meant for the ears of a young ingenue. She was apprehensive of what was to happen next, and, truthfully, so was he, though not in the same way, given his handicap.

He went to the adjoining room and started to shed his jacket. Sure enough, he saw the faint pink stain on his white shirt, indicating he’d opened the wound during the course of the evening and it had bled even through the swath of bandages. Fitzhugh hurried to help him.

“Nice ceremony, Colonel.”

“Thanks.” Michael gave his former sergeant a resigned look. “Let’s hope the rest of the night works out as well. As you predicted, I am not at my best.” He indicated his side. “This hurts like blazes.”

“No worries, sir.” Fitzhugh took the jacket and shook it out. “As I believe you mentioned, how would she know the difference? A young, sheltered woman like the marchioness will be very nervous. It is to your advantage.”

Put that way, it sounded cold.

The marchioness.

It was so official. It
was
official. He had just gotten married. He was the bloody marquess and she was his wife. When he’d kissed her earlier, it had struck him with irrefutable immediacy, her lips cool under his and hundreds of people watching them.

Hell and blast
. This was his wedding night. No,
their
wedding night.

On a growl, Michael muttered, “I’d certainly like it to be a memorable occasion, and I mean something to recall with fondness, not disappointment. Unfortunately, I’m bleeding.”

“I see that.” The Irishman helped him unbutton his shirt, giving the bandages a critical look. “Doesn’t look too serious, sir. I’ll rewrap it and you’ll be right as rain.”

“I happen to loathe rain,” he muttered. “Remember Badajoz? That was one devil of a battle.”

“Wet and cold, sir. I’ll not deny it.”

“Bodies piling up against the walls, cannon blasting . . . it was a nightmare.” Michael tried to ignore the twinge as his valet pulled aside the bloody cloth. It was true. The citadel had finally fallen but it had been at an atrocious price, and Wellington had flung men at those walls with inhuman determination. It had worked, of course, because great generals knew how to win battles, but, oh, God, the cost.

Blood. Muddy ditches. Piles of bodies.

It was why he still risked his life for England.

That kind of carnage should never be for naught. Many men had died for a cause and he couldn’t regard it lightly. Michael said in crisp irony, “I suppose Julianne will be apprehensive enough she might discount my less than debonair approach. I feel like my side is on fire and can’t imagine effectively concealing it.”

“A true dilemma, Colonel.”

He shot Fitzhugh a sardonic look. “Your empathy is appreciated.”

“I believe truthfulness to be the order of the day.”

“I’ve noticed that about you a time or two in the years we’ve known each other. Not to mention Lord Altea and Alex St. James seem to have your same inclinations. They think I should tell her the truth. Not just about the attempt on my life, but about what I am.”

“You could.” His valet got out a clean cravat and proceeded to tear the fine linen neatly in half. “But what would you do if she asks you to resign and instead groom yourself to be the duke, as you should? We both know that’s exactly your place in life.”

That was quite a question. Michael didn’t mind risking his neck for England, but the burden of a dukedom hung over his head like a blacksmith’s anvil.

“I don’t know,” he said grimly.

“As I thought.” Fitzhugh chuckled and deftly finished his work with his usual precision, rewrapping the wound with the skill of someone who has performed the task far too many times. Then he handed Michael his silk dressing gown. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you, Fitz. I have to manage the rest of this on my own, I believe.”

His valet nodded, a small grin on his ruddy face. “As lovely as Lady Longhaven is, I doubt it will be much of a chore, sir. Good night, and please accept my congratulations.”

Chore or not, his level of enthusiasm was a bit on the low side. Michael tied the belt of his robe in a loose knot and went over to pour himself a brandy. Instead of sitting down, he wandered to the window and stared out at the night. A sprinkling of stars were scattered like a handful of gleaming diamonds tossed on a swath of black velvet sky, and the moon was nothing but a thin wafer.

As he stood there, he couldn’t help but think of his brother. Harry was gone and with him his quicksilver smile and expansive sense of humor, not an ounce of guile in his soul. On his wedding night Harry would never be sporting a wound inflicted in some dark, unsavory section of London and be forced to ponder just how he was going to handle explaining it.

Michael sipped his brandy and wondered if he would have to go to Julianne or if she would have the courage to open the connecting door. It was a bit hard for him to imagine how she viewed their marriage in general, mostly because he’d avoided talking to her as much as possible since his return to England. If he felt at a certain level she still belonged to Harry, Michael wondered if maybe she didn’t have the same perception. After all, most of her life she’d known she was going to marry the Marquess of Longhaven, but
he
wasn’t supposed to be the one with that title.