Royal's Bride (14 page)

She jerked her attention back to the men around her, smiled at Savage until he had no choice but to ask her to dance. A waltz was playing and as he whirled her around the floor, she saw that he was a very good dancer. Jocelyn gave him a brilliant smile as they waltzed past Christopher Barclay and she was delighted to see the smug smile slip from his face.

A scowl rose instead and Jocelyn inwardly smiled. Served him right, she thought. He was hardly her social equal. Once she was a duchess, she would give him the cut direct.

She held on to the thought as she and Savage finished the dance and he returned her to her mother.

“A pleasure, Miss Caulfield.”

“Indeed, Mr. Savage.”

Mother was scowling, not the least pleased to see her dancing with a man of such sordid reputation. Jocelyn ignored her. She wasn’t interested in Jonathan Savage or any other man. She was soon to become a duchess. That was all that mattered.

Growing bored with the men’s adoration, she glanced round the room in search of Lily, spotted her in conversation with the Dowager Countess of Tavistock, Royal’s aunt Agatha, soon to be Jocelyn’s aunt, as well. She should say a polite hello but she wasn’t going
to. At least for tonight, she would leave conversing with an old woman to her cousin, who laughed at something the dowager said and actually seemed to be enjoying their talk.

Jocelyn immersed herself in the dancing, partnered with a dozen different men, each time casting Christopher a triumphant glance, which seemed to make his hard jaw look even harder.

Beginning to tire of the game, she excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room, but instead walked down the hall into an empty salon where she wouldn’t be seen, then out onto the terrace for a cooling breath of air.

Careful to remain in the shadows around a corner out of sight, she made her way over to the balustrade that looked down into the garden. She was enjoying the hum of crickets and the reviving cool night air, when she felt a pair of hands settle on her waist and a man’s hard body behind her. The squeak of outrage rising in her throat was silenced by a pair of familiar lips tracing a pattern on her collarbone.

“So…you like to dance, do you?”

His masculine scent filled her senses. The hard length of his body surrounded her, pressing her up against the balustrade. She should be outraged at his boldness, his incredible audacity, ought to turn and slap his handsome face. Instead, she stood there helplessly, letting him kiss the back of her neck.

“I’ve missed you,” Christopher said softly, turning her around and into his arms. “I’ve thought of our kiss a hundred times.”

Then his mouth settled over hers and he was kissing her and all she could do was sway against him and slide
her arms around his neck. He demanded entrance to her mouth and when she parted her lips, his tongue swept in, taking her deeply, as if it was his right.

A little whimper escaped. Desire flooded through her, making her limbs feel weak. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she wasn’t sure she could have remained on her feet.

“It seems you like kissing, too,” he said against the side of her neck, nipping an earlobe. “I’m not surprised…a woman as full of passion as you.” He bit down on the lobe, then eased the pain by taking the sensitive bit of flesh into his mouth and sucking gently.

Jocelyn moaned.

“You’re beautiful and fiery,” he said, claiming her mouth again, kissing her until she felt light-headed. “You’re also spoiled and selfish, the kind of woman a man needs to take in hand.”

Her foggy mind cleared just enough to know she’d been insulted. “How dare you say such a thing! I should slap you for your insolence.”

He chuckled. “But you won’t, will you? You aren’t sure I won’t slap you back.”

Dear God, it was true. Christopher Barclay was an unknown commodity, volatile, yet always tightly controlled.

He bent his head and kissed her again, gently this time, softening his words. “I would never hit a woman, certainly not one as lovely as you. Not even if you deserved it.” He lifted his head, and a corner of his mouth edged up. “A good hard spanking wouldn’t be out of the question, however.”

“How dare you!”

His jaw hardened. “I’d dare a lot more if I could afford you—which we both know I can’t. You’ll marry far above me. I hope you at least get a real man for your money.”

“Why, you—”

Cutting off her reply, he turned and left her there on the terrace, alone and fuming in the shadows. Knowing he was right.

She would never marry Christopher or any other man of his lowly social position. But the laugh would be on him when her engagement to the duke was announced.

There was no doubt of Royal Dewar’s masculinity. He was a magnificent man, unbelievably handsome and amazingly virile, a fact she had discovered during their brief afternoon kiss. The tall male body pressing into hers had been as solid as granite, and so was his quite impressive male anatomy, if the tight fit of his riding breeches could be deemed any indication.

Jocelyn’s gaze moved to the French doors leading into the drawing room. Christopher Barclay stood next to the Countess of Wren, a lovely woman in her thirties, his head bent toward her in intimate conversation. A stab of jealousy went through her, along with a renewed shot of temper.

Jocelyn moistened her lips, tasting Christopher there, feeling the same sweep of desire she had felt just moments ago. She watched his mouth curve into a seductive smile and her own lips began to curve. Christopher Barclay would never make a suitable husband. But then Jocelyn wasn’t interested in marrying him—not when she could marry a duke.

Marriage wasn’t an option, but there was no reason she couldn’t take the man as a lover.

Jocelyn was used to getting what she wanted. And tonight she had discovered how badly she wanted Christopher Barclay.

L
ily yawned as she stood in the bedroom unlacing Jocelyn’s corset. Outside the window the sky was a mottled gray, sunrise less than an hour away. Lily was tired clear to the bone. For hours she had been forced to dance and converse with people she had only just met. Amazingly, she had enjoyed herself.

Perhaps it was the unusual attention she had received from Viscount Wellesley and his group of friends, who had kept her well entertained all evening. Perhaps Lord Wellesley had guessed her feelings for the duke and felt sorry for her. There was a kindness in Sheridan Knowles she found extremely charming.

The other men in the group were an interesting mix. Wellesley had said they had known each other since their days at Oxford, that all of them, including the duke, had been members of the Oxford sculling team. They had beaten Cambridge soundly in ’45, he had said with a grin and obvious pride, winning the renowned Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race.

“Are you finished yet?” Jocelyn’s voice jolted her from her thoughts.

“Very nearly.” Lily tugged on the corset strings, loosening the laces, hearing Jocelyn’s sigh of relief.

“Thank God. I can finally breathe.” She inhaled deeply as if to confirm the fact. “It was quite an exciting evening, wasn’t it?” Jo turned to face her. “Even
you
looked as if, for a change, you were enjoying yourself.”

Lily smiled. “To my surprise, I was.” Perhaps because Royal wasn’t there and she didn’t have to bear the agony of seeing him with Jo.

“As usual, my fiancé was nowhere to be seen.” She stepped free of the corset that had fallen to her feet, picked it up and tossed it onto the bed. “Royal wasn’t there, but Christopher Barclay was.”

In the middle of hanging up Jo’s plum silk gown, Lily stopped and turned. “Not
the
Christopher Barclay. Not the Number Ten Kisser, Christopher Barclay.”

“That is the one…and I stand by my former assessment.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “Don’t say you kissed him again—not after you’ve promised to marry the duke.”

Jocelyn grinned. “Actually, he kissed me—at least at first.”

“Jocelyn!”

She hoisted her chin. “Not only did I kiss him, I’ve decided to have an affair with him.”

Lily just stood there, alarm sweeping through her. “But you can’t possibly! You can’t take a lover until you have given the duke an heir. And there is the not-so-small matter that your husband will expect you to be a virgin.”

Jo just shrugged. “It’s the 1850s, Lily—not medieval
times. I shall simply make certain the duke never knows the truth. Besides, Royal is hardly pure. He has had any number of mistresses—I know that for a fact.”

Lily didn’t doubt her. Jo had a way of ferreting out information. On top of that, Royal was an extremely virile man—as she knew from personal experience. There was no doubt he could have any woman he wanted.

The thought sent a little stab of jealousy shooting through her.

“You won’t say anything, will you?”

Lily shook her head. “You know me better than that. You’re my cousin. I would never repeat anything you told me in confidence.” No matter the distance between herself and the Caulfields, she had always been loyal to them. Lily couldn’t imagine where she might be now if they hadn’t taken her in off the streets.

“Have you…have you made an assignation with Barclay?”

“Don’t be silly. He hasn’t the slightest notion. When I am ready, I shall let him know.”

“Perhaps he will refuse. Once your engagement is announced, Barclay will be honor-bound to—”

“I don’t intend to wait until I am officially engaged. The engagement ball is more than a month away. I intend to have Christopher very soon.”

Lily couldn’t believe it. “What if you are found out? The duke might break off the engagement.”

Jo pulled her nightgown on over her head, let it fall down over her voluptuous curves. “I doubt it. He wants my money, not me. And if I am going to be married to a man who merely tolerates my existence, a man who will bed me simply because it is his duty—then I am
going to know true passion with a man I desire before I am wed to him.”

Lily said nothing. It was simply inconceivable that her cousin would make Royal a cuckold even before they were married. And yet, she had come to understand a bit about passion. With the right man, it was an emotion nearly impossible to resist.

And Jo might well be right about the duke. Lily thought there was a very good chance Royal would marry Jocelyn whether she was a virgin or not. He had made a vow to accept the marriage his father had arranged and rebuild the Bransford fortune.

Lily didn’t believe there was anything Jo could do to make him break his word.

Royal sat in a private room at White’s, surrounded by his closest friends. All of them had arrived precisely at the appointed time, 8:00 p.m.

Sherry was already in London, so was Jonathan Savage, third son of the Earl of Greville. Dillon St. Michaels lived in the city full-time, with the exception of an occasional excursion to his grandfather’s estate in the country. Benjamin Wyndam, Earl of Nightingale, and his wife, Maryann, lived in a mansion in a fashionable Mayfair neighborhood. Only Quentin Garrett, Viscount March, heir to the Earl of Leighton, had ridden any distance in answer to Royal’s summons.

Royal had no doubt they would come to his aid. Should they ask, he would do the same for any of them.

“All right, don’t keep us in suspense,” said St. Michaels, a big man, heavyset through the chest and
shoulders, one hell of an oarsman. But then they all were. “What is it that is so all-fired important?”

“I hope it’s something lurid,” Savage said, lounging back in his chair, black hair gleaming, his fingers steepled lazily in front of him. “I find myself growing bored of late. Perhaps this will rouse my flagging spirits.”

“Very little of yours ever flags,” countered St. Michaels. “With your insatiable appetites, you walk around stiff as a pole half the time.”

All of them chuckled. It was well known that Savage was the cocksman of the group. Being caught in a compromising situation last year with one of the young debutantes’ chaperones had ruined what was left of his already sordid reputation.

“Perhaps Bransford wishes to cry off from marrying his delectable future bride,” St. Michaels offered.

“I doubt it,” said Savage. “I had the good fortune to dance with the lady last night and I can safely say, a man would be a fool to give up bedding a wench like that.”

“We were speaking of marriage, Savage,” Quent reminded him, speaking up for the first time. “There is a difference, which I am sure, deep down, you must know.” As heir to the Earl of Leighton he carried the honorary title of Viscount March, but he preferred his friends simply call him Quent.

Quent had recently entered the marriage mart, though so far he hadn’t met anyone who fit his exacting standards. Royal envied him being able to wed a woman he chose instead of one who had been chosen for him.

“I believe the matter we are here to discuss concerns the late duke, Royal’s father,” Sherry said, returning the men to the subject at hand.

The small group instantly sobered. All of them knew Royal’s misfortune in inheriting a worthless dukedom and that because of it he would be marrying for money, wedding a woman of incredible wealth, a marriage his father had arranged.

“As you all know, over the last three years of his life, my father lost most of the Bransford fortune. That in itself is a tragedy of immense proportions. It seems, however, that the duke was not solely to blame. My father was acting in a diminished capacity. That is to say, his stroke left him less than capable of making financial decisions.”

“Which is where a man named Preston Loomis comes in,” Sherry added, having already been brought up to date early that morning.

“Loomis, you say? I believe I know the name,” Nightingale said. “Met the chap at an affair last year, seemed a nice enough fellow.”

“I’m sure he did,” Royal said, his jaw going tight.

“Loomis is actually a con man named Dick Flynn,” Sherry explained. “Basically, he bled the old duke dry and now lives in fine feather off Royal’s inheritance right here in the city.”

Jonathan frowned, drawing his winged black eyebrows together. “I think I also may have met him. Suave sort of fellow, charms all the older women?”

Royal nodded. “And apparently charismatic enough to convince my father to invest a fortune in what were nothing more than a series of well-planned swindles.”

“Put simply, the poor man was duped,” added Sherry. “It is one thing to make business decisions that turn out badly. It is another thing entirely to take advantage of
a sick old man who is mentally incapable of using sound judgment.”

“We all liked and admired your father, Royal,” said Quent. “Loomis should be brought to justice.”

“Unfortunately, there is no solid evidence,” Royal said. “All we have are rumor and innuendo, no physical proof we can take to the authorities.”

“Which means we will have to deal with the man ourselves,” Sherry finished.

St. Michaels leaned forward. “Which begs the question…why have you brought us here? What can we do to help?”

Royal’s gaze ran over the men. “As I said, we can’t go to the police, but I may have come up with a way to get back at least some of what Loomis stole from my father.”

Quent straightened, his lean, broad-shouldered build becoming more pronounced, his expression even more serious than it usually was.

St. Michaels rubbed his big hands together in glee. “Oh, joy, Savage may indeed be saved from boredom.”

One of Jonathan’s black eyebrows arched up and he looked askance at Royal. “I admit, this sounds intriguing. What role do you expect us to play?”

“To tell you the truth, I am not yet quite sure. I must warn you this could be dangerous. Rumor has it, Loomis won’t stop at murder. And there is always the chance we’ll be caught and if we are, our reputations will suffer.”

Savage snorted. “That is hardly a problem for me.”

“I’m in,” said St. Michaels. “I could do with a bit of entertainment.”

“Anyone wish to decline?” Sherry asked.

No one said a word.

Royal surveyed his friends, saw the resolve in their faces. “All right, then. I’ll keep you posted. A week from now, I should know more. I’ll let you know what I need.”

The men relaxed. Sherry left to fetch a waiter for a fresh round of drinks and talk turned to less serious matters.

The stage was set. The cast assembled. Royal wondered how long it would be before the play began.