The Seduction of an English Scoundrel (30 page)

Chapter 29

There was such a flurry of activity in the days preceding the wedding that Grayson and Jane barely found time to exchange a few words, let alone succumb to temptation. For one thing Grayson's widowed sister, Emma Boscastle, the Viscountess Lyons, had arrived from Scotland. An energetic sprite of a woman, Emma took charge of the arrangements with a snap of her graceful fingers.

Known for her flawless deportment, her genius at hosting a party, she also served as a veritable fountain of advice for the socially unaware. Which, in her educated opinion, unfortunately included her own undisciplined family.

As Drake said on the day of her arrival, “Well, there goes the end of uncivilized life as we know it. The Dainty Dictator has arrived. Fall in everyone. She's liable to inspect behind our ears.”

With the Boscastle reputation for scandal, the crème de la crème of the nobility waited in anticipation for the ceremony. Which, judging by the bride's last attempt at matrimony, promised to provide an unforgettable entertainment if nothing else.

And then the day arrived. Jane awoke with her heart pounding all through her body and wondered if Grayson felt the same way. Goodness, what if he decided to trick her and not show up at his own chapel for the wedding?

Except that Emma would be there to keep Grayson in line. Beautiful blue-eyed Emma, in whom the Boscastle penchant for wildness seemed to have gotten itself reversed into a penchant for propriety.

In his Park Lane residence, the marquess's valet cheerfully sharpened his razor on the leather strop and lathered the handsome face of his master. “Well, today's the day, my lord, and if I may be so bold as to say, I never thought I'd live to see it.”

Grayson nodded, his square jaw smothered in shaving soap. “Nor did I. In fact, I can hardly believe it will happen.”

It did happen, though, exactly three hours later. In a poignant echo of the previous ceremony, Grayson Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft, turned to openly admire the bride walking the nave of his private chapel. He knew for a fact that she had a beautiful derriere. And the rest of her was something else altogether.

Not that he made a point of lusting after young women in wedding dresses, but this particular bride happened to belong to him.

Or shortly would. After all, both of them had managed to put in an appearance. He straightened his shoulders as her father bore her to the altar, his arm securing hers in an until-death-do-us-part grip.

“Done,” Belshire said in a terse voice.

Grayson stared down at her veiled face, took her hand, and said, “Thank you, from the depths of my heart. I will cherish her forever.”

A buzz of appreciation rose from the guests seated in the pews. The bride, everyone agreed, could not have been more beautiful. She wore a cap of embroidered silk with seed pearls threaded through her honey-colored hair. A cream white satin dress, with a fitted bodice in the palest pink and a sash of pink rosettes that dropped to the flounced hem, draped her graceful curves beneath a long train of Valenciennes lace.

Grayson felt his throat tighten. This was it. No ending here. A beginning. So he would stand beside her for the rest of their lives. At births, at baptisms, at balls, until his dying breath. He stared down at her in adoration. He did not regret his past, except the times he had neglected his family and taken their existence for granted. He wouldn't repeat that mistake as he embraced the future. Perhaps he wasn't as good as he should be, but he'd learned he wasn't all bad either.

He glanced up from his wife's face at his brothers and sisters, those handsome, heartbreaking siblings of his. Unbelievable as it was, he loved the whole aggravating lot of them. . . .

Dear God. Not the mistresses again. His gaze lit on a pew occupied by two of his former mistresses and the products of their previous relationships.

Mrs. Parker blew him a friendly kiss. Her pair of gangly sons from her first affair grinned and gestured at Jane, elbowing each other in approval. Tomorrow Grayson would have to see about securing the two oafs military commissions.

He returned his attention to his bride, his shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I swear I didn't invite them. . . .”

“I did,” she whispered, biting her lip to hold back a mischievous laugh.

He blinked. “Oh.”

“Aren't you glad?”

“Should I be?”

“I wanted everything to be the same as the day we met.”

“The same?”

“Well,” she whispered, “this time I thought I'd invite the groom.”

He laughed low, thinking of how many times they would look back in private amusement at this moment.

The minister cleared his throat, and silence settled over the chapel. The rich perfume of roses mingled with the fragrance of melted beeswax. Jane's eyes misted with tears of happiness as Grayson gave her hand a possessive squeeze. Same place, same guests, but a very different groom and an entirely different feeling. This time her heart was on the altar. She stood, accepting his in return, committing herself to a lifetime of his leonine arrogance, his devotion, repeating her vows in a clear steady voice.

The guests waited, craning their heads for a view of the groom kissing the bride. Jane whispered against his cool lips, “Everyone was waiting for a scandal.”

His heavy eyebrows lifted as he gathered her against him for their first married kiss. “Give the people what they want.”

“Which means—” And she broke off, gasping with laughter as her scandalous love chucked her up in his arms and over his shoulder.

“I wanted to do this before,” he said above the whoops of the well-wishers, who rose from their seats to watch them, “on the day you were to marry Nigel.”

She pushed her bridal cap back off her forehead and hit him on the shoulders with her bouquet. “I wanted you, too,” she said breathlessly. “But I never dreamed we—”

“Grayson Boscastle,” said a woman's low cultured voice behind them. “Kindly remember a sense of time and place. Unhand the marchioness this instant.”

Even in her upside-down position Jane could feel the automatic response in her husband's body, her slow slide to the floor as he settled her back on her feet. “Was that Esther?” she whispered, her cheeks flushed with delight. Oh, to be a woman who wielded such power over this family of naughty boys.

“Ah, no.” He rubbed the side of his nose, his eyes crinkling in an unholy smile. “It was your sister-in-law Emma. Mrs. Killjoy.”

Emma, a beguiling woman with apricot gold hair and soft blue eyes, gave Jane a sympathetic look. “Remind the almighty there's the breakfast to get through before . . . other things.”

Other things being taking his bride to bed. Grayson traced a possessive hand down the curve of his wife's spine to the rise of her bottom. An aristocrat to the bone, he would make his social appearance at the wedding breakfast. He would graciously accept the toasts and blessings given them. And then heaven help anyone who interrupted him and Jane afterward.

For the second time that year a wedding breakfast was held in the banqueting hall of the Park Lane house. This time the newlywed couple, both bride and groom, actually sat together with the bride's parents at the head table.

Cut-glass chandeliers sparkled like stars above the guests who chattered and devoured lobster salad and champagne. Emma politely reminded everyone to leave room to sample the hothouse pineapples and huge multi-tiered wedding cake from Gunter's.

Then, in the middle of the toast, Nigel's mother looked at Jane and burst into tears. “For almost a decade, I have thought of her as my daughter-in-law.”

“There, there, Mother,” Nigel said comfortingly. “You have your first grandchild coming to console you.”

“Yes.” She sniffed, eyeing Esther's gargantuan belly over the top of her handkerchief. “A grandchild who might be as large as a gorilla by the looks of him . . .”

At the adjacent table Emma set down her silver fork in alarm. “Oh, no. Nigel's mother is going off like a waterworks. I knew it was gauche to have a huge wedding after that last debacle.”

Caroline smiled at her. “I don't think we need to worry about appearing gauche. Grayson and Jane have risen to the top of the scandal broth like cream.”

“I suppose you're right,” Emma said with a resigned smile. “It's your turn next, isn't it?”

Miranda leaned toward them, whispering, “Actually, we heard a rumor about
you,
Emma, and a certain man—”

“This,” Drake Boscastle announced to the guests seated around him, who, as a group, were a little less well behaved than those at the bridesmaids' table, “is exactly why I hate weddings.”

Mrs. Parks arranged the pearls on her bosom and gave her sons a scowl against stuffing too much cake in their mouths. “Why is that?”

“All the emotion. I mean, look at Nigel's mother bawling into her champagne. All the potential for disaster.”

“Except,” Mrs. Parks said in a wistful voice, “your brother really does love his bride.”

And Grayson did, openly, prompting a consensus of opinion among his acquaintances that the wedding was proof a Boscastle could be domesticated. A few of his more astute friends, however, interpreted the blazing possession in his eyes whenever he glanced at his wife to mean his wildness had not been quite strangled by the bonds of holy matrimony.

Two hours later he proved the point.

“Champagne in bed, and in the middle of the day,” Jane whispered, admiring the powerful lines of her husband's chest as he removed his blue frock coat. “This is decadence.”

“Isn't decadence under the pretense of decency what you wanted?” he asked, and took the half-empty glass from her hands.

She stretched up to kiss him, short teasing flicks of her tongue against his, heat rising between them like steam. “I think you know me a little too well.”

“I think you're right,” he said in a husky voice.

He slid his large hands up her ribs to the lush contours of her breasts. She drew away, teasing him, to remove the petticoats he had untied.

His gaze traveled over her in burning anticipation. Her languid movements as she undressed, her back to the bed, taunted him. He lounged across the pillows, watching her through narrowed eyes, and felt his body heat, felt the potent rush of blood through his veins.

“Go ahead, tease me,” he murmured, pulling off his neckcloth. “In a few minutes I'll have you begging for it.”

Her unbound hair swirled around her hips as she spun to the bed. There was not an inch of his wife that did not excite him.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” she said with a mischievous smile.

“I think you do.”

She raised her leg on the bed for him to remove her white lace garters and stockings. The duty, his first as the lady's husband, made him painfully hard. His heart thundered in his chest as he eased his hand around the curve of her calf to comply. Small intimacies such as this brought him deep pleasure.

The female scent that was hers alone heightened his animal instincts. Her gentle smile uplifted him. From the depths of his soul he was drawn to her. Slowly he peeled off the lace garters and stockings, one leg at a time. His eyes glistened with love and erotic intentions as she waited nude before him.

He rose and unfastened his breeches, his face dark with desire. She reached down to help him, sliding her hand inside his waistband. “Touch me like that, temptress, at your own peril,” he said, with a soft growl of approval.

“Like this?” she whispered, sliding her fingers down the silken length of him.

“You're really asking for trouble.”

“Don't I always?”

He pulled her against his hard, aroused body. “And don't I always give it to you?”

“Yes, but not nearly often enough.”

He gave a low appreciative laugh. “That's easily remedied.”

“Then remedy it, Grayson.” With a suggestive smile she began to unbutton his embroidered waistcoat and white linen shirt. “Or may I do the honors?”

“We'll take turns, shall we?” he murmured, loving the way she responded to him, the passion in her nature. With her he was at peace, his best, the future a beacon of hope and happiness. The forever commitment they had made today only sweetened their sexual pleasure.

He finished undressing, then drew her into his arms.

His hands drifted over her creamy flesh, sculpting her curves like an artist; he needed to feel her against him. His entire body pulsed with pleasure at the thought of bedding her whenever he liked.

“We did it,” she whispered, her breasts swaying like opulent pearls against his warm chest. “An entire wedding, and no scandal to speak of.”

He bent his head to kiss her moist pink mouth. “Imagine that,” he murmured. “Both the bride and groom showed up at the same time.”

“A shame they didn't stay for their own wedding breakfast.”