His Sinful Secret (3 page)

“Isn’t it?” He was unfazed by her curt, dismissive tone.

She laughed, but it had nothing to do with humor. “In case it escaped you, the man arrived with a knife wound in his side. Amorous bed play was not on his agenda.”

“It didn’t escape me. Who cleaned up the trail of blood to your bedroom, who gave him a clean shirt, and who drove him close enough to his grand home for a discreet arrival at this ungodly hour?”

“Your efficiency is always appreciated.” It was true. Lawrence fulfilled many roles in her household, and in her life for that matter. Whether he was driving the carriage, playing footman and serving claret to guests, or various other not-so-mundane tasks, he was always competent and discreet.

“Shall I name how I’d like to be paid?” Lawrence shifted his powerful body, all hard muscle, in one athletic movement. The way he moved into her room was reminiscent of a stalking panther—slow, riveted, intent.

He’d dressed to drive Longhaven home, but changed back into his dressing gown. It gaped open and showed a well-defined chest, and his dark eyes held just a slight erotic glitter. In the feminine surroundings he always looked out of place. Too rugged against the trappings of silk bed hangings and fine Persian rugs, the vase of flowers by the side of her bed incongruous with his dominant masculinity.

Antonia felt her heart begin to beat faster. When he had that look in his eyes, he was very difficult to resist. The trouble was, she wasn’t even sure she wished to resist. She protested, “It’s late. I’m tired.”

“You can sleep afterward.” He corrected himself. “You’ll sleep
better
afterward.”

She should turn him away.

All too often, she didn’t.

“You always do,” he reminded her, the hoarse edge to his voice indicative of his need.

Yes, it was true, but she usually woke regretful. Using him for transient pleasure, for the comfort of strong arms around her, always stirred a conscience she wasn’t even sure she possessed any longer. But still she tried to argue. “It isn’t fair to you.”

Lawrence reached for her and hauled her to her feet, the movement not precisely rough but still demanding. The heat from his body warmed her, and she felt the rigid length of his desire between them.

His hot mouth grazed her ear. “I can take care of myself, Antonia. Let me love you.”

She surrendered.

 

Maybe it wasn’t surprising she couldn’t sleep, but it was annoying just the same.

Julianne Sutton wandered over to the window and pulled the curtain aside, staring into the darkness. A thin moon illuminated the rooftops of the nearby houses and made blank eyes out of the windows.

Two days.

She was supposed to be married in
two
days.

A shiver of apprehension ran up her spine. It wasn’t as if she could recall a time she didn’t know she would one day marry the Marquess of Longhaven, but the phrase
day after tomorrow
took on an intimidating immediacy.

Maybe she’d always, for as long as she could remember, accepted the idea that the intended marriage was fait accompli, but what she hadn’t expected was the change of identity of her bridegroom. If Harry had lived, she wouldn’t be so nervous.

Harry. With his easygoing smile and teasing manner . . .

A soft knock startled her out of her reverie. “Yes?”

The door opened and a male voice drawled, “Still awake? I saw the light under the door. What on earth are you doing up at this hour?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” she said dryly as her older brother strolled in. The strong odor of brandy and tobacco came with him, and he’d removed his cravat sometime during the evening. A little disheveled and coming in so late. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been doing. As usual the discrepancies between how females were constantly chaperoned and how males could do as they pleased struck her. She said tartly, “At least I’m ready for bed and in my dressing gown, not just stumbling in.”

“I didn’t stumble.”

“You’ve sobered up a little, then.”

“Maybe,” he agreed in rueful honesty, running his fingers through his hair, a slight frown on his handsome face. “I lost track of time playing cards, and yes, there were a few glasses of brandy involved. What’s your excuse for not being sound asleep?”

“Just . . . thinking.”

“Ah. Wedding jitters?” Malcolm selected a silk-covered chair and dropped into it, looking a little ridiculous in dark evening clothes superimposed over the feminine, peach upholstery. “I saw Longhaven earlier tonight at our club. He seemed perfectly calm, as usual. No nerves at all, or if he has them, he doesn’t show it.”

She wasn’t sure
calm
was the right term to apply to her fiancé.
Calm
was too simple.
Controlled
might work better. Something about him spoke of leashed intensity and the smooth, almost neutral exterior somehow enhanced the impression.

“Good for him,” she muttered with a small sigh. “I admit I wish we weren’t virtual strangers. At least I
knew
Harry.”

“He was a good sort.” Regret colored the comment. “Damned shame.”

Malcolm wasn’t entirely sober or he wouldn’t have sworn in front of her, but she agreed with her brother’s sentiment, if not the language.

Yes, his death had been a shame. A fluke, an anomaly that at the age of twenty-seven an apparently otherwise healthy young man would complain of pains in his chest and be dead just hours later. His parents, the Duke and Duchess of Southbrook, had been devastated. Immediately they’d sent word to their youngest son, at the time on the Peninsula fighting the French, begging him to come home. It was difficult to say if he would have dutifully resigned his commission and returned to England or not, but the war decided it for him, finally coming to an end.

So Michael Hepburn had come home to take his older brother’s place. To take his title, his position as heir to a dukedom,
and
his fiancée. Their parents still insisted on the match. The engagement between her and Harry hadn’t yet been officially announced before he died, and the marriage contracted was between Julianne and the Marquess of Longhaven, so the official documents didn’t even need to be changed.

Julianne had argued with her father that the five years the younger Hepburn son had spent in Spain meant they didn’t know each other at all—she’d been all of thirteen when he left, so she’d barely known him anyway—but for whatever unfathomable reason, the new Lord Longhaven had agreed to an engagement when the proper mourning period had been observed.

She’d been thoroughly overruled.

Harry’s death had been well over a year ago, and Michael had been back in England for some time now, but she really didn’t know him any better than before his return. Polite but distant, charming but enigmatic, he was still a stranger.

“Yes, it was a shame,” she agreed with genuine grief, remembering the genial young man she’d always thought she’d marry. The two brothers looked similar, with the same lean build, chestnut hair, and vivid hazel eyes. Their aristocratic features had the familial Hepburn handsomeness stamped on them, but right there all similarity ended. Harry and his younger brother weren’t at all alike.

She wasn’t an expert on the subject of men, but she had a feeling Michael Hepburn was . . .
complicated
. “I do miss Harry. He was always laughing.”

Malcolm might be a little inebriated and it was very late—or early, depending on how one looked at the time—but he still caught the bleak inflection in her voice. “Life changes sometimes, Jule, and we can’t do anything about it. Maybe this was really meant to be, you and the new marquess. Harry was a bit too tame for you, I always thought. Michael Hepburn isn’t tame at all, I’d guess. It is a little difficult to tell what he’s thinking.”

She guessed the same thing, if the compelling, cool assessment of his gaze was any indication.

Another nervous shiver touched her.

“T
his should have been stitched together.”Fitzhugh tossed aside the crusty bandage and sent him a level glare of disapproval. “I say you should damn the questions and summon a physician to look at it, sir. It’s a right nasty one.”

Michael returned the look with a small smile, though the injury was sore as hell and the removal of the wrapping had caused a light sweat to sheen his skin. “I am uninterested in having a physician perhaps reveal to someone he treated the Marquess of Longhaven for a knife wound. I’ve been hurt worse and you’ve seen to it. Stop fussing and just get on with it.”

The older man shook his head but obeyed, cleaning the wound and placing clean linen on it before wrapping strips of cloth to keep the pad in place. Stocky, weathered, and trustworthy, he played valet with as much efficiency as he’d performed his duties when they served together under Wellington’s command. A few moments later Michael eased into his shirt and surveyed his appearance in the mirror. Clean-shaven and dressed, he looked perfectly normal, except maybe for the faint shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t slept well, partly due to the wound itself, and partly due to its cause.

Two murder attempts, a volatile matter to handle for his superiors, and now a problematic wedding night.

No wonder he hadn’t managed more than a half doze for a few hours.

His former sergeant had an uncanny ability to read his mind. “What are you going to tell her, if I might ask, my lord?” The form of address still came awkwardly. Fitzhugh was used to calling him
Colonel
and frequently lapsed out of sheer habit.

“I’m not sure.” He finished tying his cravat and turned around. “I thought of saying I fell from my horse, but I fear even to an inexperienced eye, it looks like what it is—a knife wound. Eventually the bandage will come off and the scar would prove me a liar. Not an auspicious way to start a marriage.”

There was small, inelegant snort. “The lovely young lady had better get used to half-truths, with the business you dabble your toes in.”

He ignored the comment. “I have to come up with something else.”

Fitzhugh picked up his discarded robe and bustled off to the dressing room to hang it up. It was a warm morning and brilliant sunshine lit the bedroom with golden light. Michael hadn’t taken Harry’s suite of rooms—it felt like the worst kind of betrayal to take anything more that once belonged to his brother. He’d already inherited his title, his fortune, and his fiancée, so moving into his apartments was out of the question. The furnishings in his suite were a bit austere, the same as before he’d left for Spain. Plain dark blue hangings on the carved bed, a simple cream rug on the polished floor, matching curtains at the long windows. He’d been twenty-one when he’d boarded the ship to sail away to war, and decorating was hardly a top priority in his life at that time. It still wasn’t. Maybe Julianne would care to redo their portion of the Mayfair mansion, but then again, maybe she wouldn’t. He knew very little about her, really.

Too little. And the distance was deliberate and entirely his fault.

It doesn’t matter what she might be like,
he reminded himself. He was going to marry her regardless, for his parents mourned his brother with acute grief.

He’d been startled and off guard when they had asked him to please honor the arranged marriage and take Harry’s place. Though he wasn’t at all sure that years of war and intrigue hadn’t hardened him to a frightening degree, there still must be some vestige of sentiment left, for he hadn’t been able to refuse. He’d come home, assumed his brother’s position as the heir, and now was going to appropriate the young woman destined to be his wife.

It would make him feel much less guilty if Harry hadn’t been so enamored of her and looking forward to the union.

The dutiful letters from home at first only hinted of it. His older brother had mentioned how beautiful she was becoming as she matured, how intelligent and goodhumored, how charming and gracious. The final letter, which hadn’t reached Michael until Harry was gone and in his grave, had explained how fortunate he was to be pledged to a woman who would not only grace his arm in public and his bed in private, but also enrich his life.

Did Michael feel undeserving?

A resounding affirmative to that question,
he thought as he sighed and ran his hand through his neatly combed hair, ruffling the thick strands. He was nothing like Harry. There wasn’t an easygoing bone in his body and his mind worked in circles, rather than straight lines. He’d seen enough horror that he’d come to understand it, and that was frightening in itself, and all the scars he bore were not just skin deep. He told his valet, “My marriage will be a matter of convenience.”

“Yours or hers?” Fitzhugh was as blunt as always. “You conveniently go about your business and she conveniently doesn’t notice stab wounds, long absences, and late-night comings and goings. Is that how it will work?”

“How the devil do I know how it will work? I have never been married before, but most aristocratic unions—especially those arranged by parents—involve a certain level of detachment. Besides, she’s very young. Not even twenty.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Fitzhugh furrowed his brow. “She’s got eyes, doesn’t she? A very pretty pair of them, at that. Now, I say you’d better come up with a good excuse for your current state of incapacitation, Colonel, or there will be all hell to pay from the beginning. I’m guessing, from the looks of that wicked gash, you’re not going to be in top form tomorrow night to claim your husbandly rights. Young or not, that bonny lass will wonder why you didn’t enjoy taking her, or worse yet, why
she
didn’t enjoy it.”

“I can’t imagine she’d know the difference between a good performance or a poor one on a sexual level,” he said dryly. “And thanks for your confidence in my masculine prowess.”

A flicker of humor washed over the other man’s broad face. “I imagine you’ll get the job done.”