The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

MayfairLondon, England1814

The Boscastle-Welsham marriage would have been the wedding of the year—if the groom had bothered to put in an appearance. Sir Nigel Boscastle was so noticeably absent from his own nuptials that the bride’s father had been forced to walk the long-suffering Lady Jane to the altar where, surrounded by a cluster of distraught bridesmaids, the wedding party minus the bridegroom waited. And waited.

“I shall deal with the corkbrain after the ceremony,” the distinguished seventh Earl of Belshire muttered as his daughter stood with her back to their bewildered guests. “The idiot will be late to his own funeral.”

After several minutes of confusion, the minister and bride’s parents decided that perhaps until the bridegroom arrived, Jane’s older brother, Simon, Viscount Tarleton, should stand in as temporary proxy. And so brother and abandoned bride stood. And stood.

At first no one doubted that Nigel would eventually show up to rescue Jane from this embarrassment. If, as one guest in the third pew remarked, he remembered what day it was.

After all, Sir Nigel was hardly known about town for his towering intellect, although his generosity had earned him a loyal following of friends.

The bride-to-be had not wished to be married at the popular St. George’s Church in Hanover Square. A respectable young lady never previously involved in scandal, she avoided fussy affairs as a rule. Yet today the haut ton were crammed to capacity inside the private chapel of the Marquess of Sedgecroft’s Park Lane mansion. To witness a wedding that apparently would not take place.

Lady Jane Welsham, the guests agreed, resembled a royal princess. She positively glowed in an eggshell white satin dress worn over an ivory tissue underbodice. The scalloped hem of the dress foamed daintily around her pearl-seeded slippers. A flowing veil of Honiton lace framed her face, casting in shadow whatever emotion it revealed, to the disappointment of her enrapt audience.

The bouquet of white rosebuds she held glistened from a double-dipping in gilt. White kidskin gloves encased her slender hands, hands that remained remarkably steady considering that their owner was undergoing one of the worst humiliations in a young woman’s life. To be abandoned at the altar.

What could have happened?

Everyone in London knew that the parents of both parties had been planning this wedding since Jane and Nigel had toddled about the nursery in nappies. The Society papers had remarked more than once that rarely had a betrothed couple seemed so compatible.

What had gone wrong?

The bride’s sister Lady Caroline bitterly remarked, “Those flowers will have dried into a sachet if Nigel takes any longer. I shall strangle him for this.”

Her younger sister, Lady Miranda, shook her head in sympathy. “Poor Nigel. Do you think he might have gotten lost? Jane did say he required a map to find his carriage.”

Caroline’s golden-brown eyes narrowed in contemplation. “She’s holding up well under the humiliation, isn’t she?”

“Would you expect less of a Welsham?” Miranda whispered back.

“I don’t know,” Caroline replied, “but I daresay that such bad behavior is probably typical of the Boscastle male. For all his gentle ways, Nigel did descend from one of the most notorious bloodlines in England. Just look at our host Sedgecroft over there, lounging like the lord of lions in his pew with his ladybirds around him.”

“His what?” Miranda asked in a scandalized whisper.

“I can hardly shout out the word, Miranda. That woman in the deep pink dress is Lady Greenhall, his last lover.”

“And he brought her here, to Jane’s wedding?”

“If there is one.”

“Well, his brothers are said to be no better,” Miranda added. “The lot of them should have their foreheads branded with an R for rogue.”

“I wonder what Sedgecroft thinks of all this,” Caroline murmured. “He does not look exactly pleased, does he?”

The host in question, the chapel’s owner, Grayson Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft, sat thinking that the bride had the most appealing derriere he had seen in quite a long time. Not that he made a point of lusting after young women in wedding dresses, but he had been staring at the back of her for over two hours now. A normal man’s curiosity could not help but be aroused. What else was he to look at? He wondered whether the rest of her was as appealing.

Besides, he was pointedly ignoring the guests in his family’s pews: various cousins and dozing uncles; two former mistresses, one of whom had brought along her bumpkin sons; and his three younger brothers, who were sprawled out in irreverent disregard for the holy ceremony.

If the ceremony ever came to its usual unhappy conclusion, that is, the entrapment of another man in wedlock.

His brother, Lieutenant Colonel Lord Heath Boscastle, leaned forward from the pew behind him. “What do you think?” he asked in amusement. “Should we start taking bets on whether he’ll show?”

“He’d better show or answer to me,” Grayson said darkly. “I’ve spent half a day already staring at—well, staring at something usually reserved for a husband’s eyes, let us say.” Nigel happened to be their cousin, a Boscastle whom Grayson actually liked, although at the moment he felt like clobbering him for being such a dolt.

A grin broke across Heath’s handsome face. “The last time I saw such a collection of Boscastles in church was at Father’s funeral. Who invited the mistresses?”

“I think I did,” Grayson said, suppressing a yawn. “God knows I’ve been sitting here so long my brain’s gone stiff.”

“You invited them to a wedding?”

“It’s not my wedding, thank God.”

“Well, it is your chapel.”

“Ergo, I invite whom I please.”

“Someone might have thought to invite the groom.”

Grayson folded his arms across the chest of his charcoal gray long-tailed coat. “This thing has gone on so long I’m tempted to marry the woman myself.”

“Say it isn’t so.”

Grayson gave a deep laugh. “It isn’t.”

“By the way,” Heath said, stifling his own laughter, “I had to refuse a supper invitation for the pair of us at Audrey’s last evening. Where the blazes were you when I called?”

Grayson grunted. “Flushing Drake and Devon out of gaming hells so we could put on a pretense of family approval for this wedding.”

“I thought nuptials made you nervous.”

Grayson’s blue eyes glittered with devilish lights. “The avowed bachelor in me is dying by the moment.”

Heath’s grin faded. “And the soldier in me senses the trouble has only begun. How is the hot-blooded Helene?”

“Considerably cooler the last time I saw her, at least toward me. We did not come to an arrangement.”

“Ah. So, anyone new caught your eye?”

“No.”

“No, Gray? Not yet?”

Grayson glanced around. Two of his former mistresses appeared to be engaged in a battle of frosty glares. Open hostilities seemed possible.

His younger brothers, Drake and Devon, and one of Drake’s disreputable gambling friends had been discussing a certain young demirep they had met last night. The discussion had escalated to an argument when the trio discovered she had promised herself to them all. A fight seemed inevitable.

Chloe, the younger of Grayson’s two sisters, leaned from her pew to whisper to the bridesmaids, all of whom looked more upset than the bride.

Seeded like grenades amid these three dangerous camps sat a small but select group of the beau monde. Politicians, aristocrats, debutantes, and marriage-bent matrons who regarded Grayson much like a fortress to be seized.

He placed his fingers inside his neckcloth as if to ward off the marriage noose. It undid him, the air of holy matrimony, the warring mistresses, the militant bridesmaids, the responsibilities he had inherited almost overnight. No one, least of all him, had expected the sudden death of his father last year when the marquess had learned that his youngest son, Brandon, had been killed in Nepal. Grayson still blamed himself for not being there to deliver the news.

The weight of family obligation had fallen upon his broad shoulders like a shroud. There had been so many questions he longed to ask his father, and now it was too late. The selfish pursuits he had so enjoyed suddenly held no appeal. He could find little pleasure in his previous life.

He did not like the man he had become, and lately had begun to wonder if he could ever change.

And now this, his first public test as patriarch of the Boscastle clan. How to handle the abandonment of the bride by his own cabbage head of a cousin.

“What does one do in such a situation?” he muttered to himself.

Heath shook his head, looking mystified. “It’s too bad our Emma is so far away in Scotland. She’d know exactly what to do.”

Emma, their older sister, had been recently widowed and was giving etiquette instructions to the elite of Edinburgh to occupy her empty hours.

Grayson returned to his leisurely, more enjoyable inspection of the bride’s heart-shaped backside. Very, very nice, he thought. Not a bad choice at all for a bride, if one had to choose one. Of course, Nigel had already claimed her. A pity he hadn’t shown to pick up the package. Still, who knew what lurked in the shadows of that veil? A beauty or a beast? A siren or a shrew?

This provocative rake’s reverie ended when Heath tapped him on the shoulder to speak again. “The bride is quite lovely, isn’t she?”

“Hmm.” He steepled his fingers under his clefted chin, his expression neutral. “I haven’t made a study of it. I suppose she might be. It is hardly a thing I would notice.”

“You great liar, Grayson,” Heath said with a subdued laugh. “Those blue eyes of yours are absorbing every detail right down to her garters.”

Well, some of his less admirable qualities had not changed. He was still a man even if he wasn’t sure of anything else.

“That is a rather crude remark to be making in chapel, Heath,” he said with mock piety, as he eyed his once-mistress Mrs. Parks from the other end of the pew, where she sat between her two boisterous offspring from a previous affair. She had been a successful mantua maker when she’d taken up three years ago with Grayson. His generous pension had left her nicely settled for life, and she maintained a friendly relationship with him. “Need I remind you, dear brother, that we are in a holy sanctuary?”

“Is this your first time here, Grayson?” Heath inquired in a droll voice.

“Second,” he whispered, clearing his throat.

He took another look around the chapel. One of the bridesmaids had started crying. The bride was comforting her. The guests were definitely becoming restless, squirming in their seats, wondering in whispers what was to happen. He was going to have to take action soon, make up some ludicrous excuse for Nigel’s behavior. He began practicing in his mind.

It was highly improbable, but he could not rule out the possibility that his blasted fool of a cousin had fallen down the stairs in one of his satin slippers and knocked himself unconscious. The guests who knew Nigel would not find this difficult to believe.

He turned his attention back to the appealing figure who stood at the altar with her white shoulders held high. A man would have to possess a heart of stone not to feel some empathy, some urge to protect her from the pain his own relative had inflicted.

He spoke quietly to Heath. “One has to admire her for not bursting into hysterical tears or shredding her flowers in a fit as a few other women I know might have done.” And with this, he directed a teasing frown at Lady Greenhall and Mrs. Parks, neither of whom were known for their submissiveness.

From one of the pews on the same side of the nave, an elderly MP had just been awakened by his wife. In a befuddled shout, he asked if the accursed wedding was over yet.

“It never began,” Mrs. Parks whispered to him in embarrassment. “The groom appears to have gone missing.”

The gentleman shook his head, gazing in pity at the abandoned heroine at the altar. “She’s bearing up well, I’d say,” he said gruffly. “Stoic, like her father. That’s the stuff of old stock. Welsham backbone can’t be broken.”

“The poor innocent must be shattered,” Mrs. Parks murmured, sniffing back tears. “To be jilted by the man she has loved her entire life. I wonder what she thinks of this.”

What Lady Jane Welsham thought could hardly be repeated in polite company. Her primary concern was to rush home and remove her silk corset and small bustle. The steel buckram underpinnings were squeezing the breath from her like a bellows. Surely she had stood here suffering long enough. Surely by now it was obvious to everyone that she had been jilted.

Her second concern centered around her mother, a delicate flower of femininity who did not hail from Papa’s heartier Saxon lineage. Her mama appeared to be quite beside herself. She seemed unable to believe that any young woman, let alone her own daughter, could endure such public shame.

“The only acceptable explanation is that Nigel has been killed,” Lady Belshire passionately told anyone who would listen.

To which the earl, with equal passion, replied, “He certainly will be when I get a hold of him.”

“But they have been promised to each other forever,” his wife said tearfully. “On the day they were born, we all agreed that their future was destined for this—this debacle.”

Jane released a deep sigh, burying her nose in her bridal bouquet. The social embarrassment she could withstand, but she did hate to see Mama so distressed that the fairy tale she had plotted would not have the chosen prince at the ending.

The bride’s dispirited sigh was interpreted by most of the guests to indicate that she had reached the end of her tether. Her tender maiden’s heart was broken. One could almost hear it shattering in her chest. Who could blame her? How could Sir Nigel inflict such indignity upon the young woman who had served as his constant companion and champion since boyhood?

Of course a few malicious opinions did rear their ugly heads here and there, primarily between the debs who had always resented Jane’s social standing and bluestocking tendencies, her refusal to follow the herd. And there—

Jane’s broken heart leaped into her throat. Her gaze had just connected with a pair of sultry blue eyes that sent the most unsettling shiver of awareness down her back. Struggling to catch her breath, she assessed the rest of this compelling person in a covert glance between the gilt-tipped petals of her bouquet. Oh, goodness, goodness, goodness. So that was the scandalous Sedgecroft. That magnificent, menacing specimen of manhood could only be the infamous cousin of whom Nigel had spoken so disparagingly. Jane had always secretly hoped to meet him, but certainly not like this.

“Bear up,” her father whispered in her ear. “We shall survive this.”

“The Welshams have endured far worse,” her brother added, giving her an awkward thump on the shoulder.

Her sister Caroline scowled at him. “Not in this century they haven’t.”

Jane nodded solemnly, not actually hearing a word. It was the first time she had actually gotten a close look at her host, the notorious Marquess of Sedgecroft, in the flesh. All six feet and several inches of impressive flesh he was, too. She felt a little light-headed at the sight of him, or was her corset obstructing the flow of blood to her brain?

“That is Sedgecroft sitting in the front pew, isn’t it?” she whispered behind her bouquet to Caroline.

Caroline’s delicate face darkened in distress. “Good gracious, Jane, do not look into his eyes, whatever you do. You might fall under the curse of the Boscastle Blues.”

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 between 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.