His Sinful Secret (6 page)

But today she’d lost this battle.

Antonia Taylor acknowledged it, accepted it, but hardly embraced the realization. Attending the wedding of the man you love when he’s marrying someone else might even make you an imbecile. She was guilty of worse things, but this one might sting the most.

It was odd to think at one point in her life she’d despaired she would ever feel anything again, and when it happened, it had to be this. If she’d thought she was dead inside, she was mistaken. Apparently there was enough emotion left to form an unrequited passion for a man even more jaded, in some ways, than she was herself. A hopeless, unrealized desire for what she could never have.

Perhaps she’d thought it would be cathartic to see the finality of it. The book snapping closed before the last page, never to be reopened. The story was untold and lost.

Michael stood by the altar, composed and cool. Dressed with elegant, tailored formality in gray, offset by a dark waistcoat and pristine cravat, he looked strikingly self-possessed, not a sign anywhere that he’d been bleeding all over her bedroom just two nights before. Thick chestnut hair with glints of gold framed his face, and his eyes—that vivid hazel color she found so fascinating—were veiled and unreadable.

Everything about him, from the clean line of his jaw and nose to the sensual curve of his mouth and the width of his shoulders and lean height made her pulse throb in her wrist so fast she could feel the beat of her heart with acute awareness.

When he turned to watch his bride walk slowly down the aisle toward where he stood by the altar, it was all Antonia could do to not leap to her feet and try to stop the ceremony.

However, she wasn’t a coward. She’d lost everything in her life once, and she could bear this also. It was a pity she wasn’t still numb, and maybe she resented Michael Hepburn almost more for that than she did for choosing someone else. Love and hate could be such an odd mixture. She’d experienced both in her life, but not at the same time like at this moment.

“Dazzling.”A large-bosomed woman next to her sighed. “Such a beautiful bride.”

Antonia managed to wrest her gaze from the couple at the altar and summoned her most polite smile. “Yes, indeed. But aren’t all brides lovely?”

The acerbic hint of criticism in the comment was lost. The woman beamed at her. “Lady Julianne more than most, I think. Don’t you?”

Antonia didn’t answer. She didn’t trust herself.

Unfortunately, the irritating woman was right. The future Marchioness of Longhaven had creamy, pale skin, lustrous dark brown hair, and long-lashed blue eyes. The fragility of her features added to the aura of delicate femininity, and she was also slender yet had graceful curves. Her wedding gown was an ice blue, suiting the ethereal image.

That was just as well. It was easy to loathe perfection.

As she sat woodenly and watched the ceremony, Antonia had to wonder if this innocent young woman had any hint of who she was pledging herself to for life. No, she decided, the chit was too innocent, too sheltered, too spoiled by her wealthy, important family.

As she had been once. But life could change without due notice. Antonia had learned it in the most difficult way possible. Was Michael’s bride prepared?

Well, the sweet little kitten had married a tiger. A full-grown, predatory male who had instincts honed by years of war, with an affinity for danger and risk. He looked urbane and handsome as he stood there, but truthfully, he wasn’t nearly as civilized as he appeared. Antonia had benefited from his expertise when he’d taught her how to move in enemy territory quietly and without detection, among other skills that were a bit more lethal. A skill valuable in war . . . But she doubted London society would see it that way.

He took the insipid girl’s hand. The symbolic clasp held her gaze, her unwilling attention riveted on his long fingers entwined with another’s.

The bishop began the ritual and said the inevitable words. Antonia watched, she listened, and a small part of her died.

But I’ve been dead before,
she reminded herself,
and have risen from the ashes of that lost life.

At last it was over.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Antonia forced herself to watch Michael accept the invitation. It flayed her soul, but she would heal. She always had.

All she could do was pray this time wasn’t different.

 

The world was surreal, blurred, as if the edges had been smeared by a careless brush of a hand across a not-yet-dried canvas. Julianne gazed up at the man standing next to her and was . . . paralyzed.

Among a thousand other things, none of which she could specifically define.

The current Marquess of Longhaven’s face was unreadable, and his fingers grazed her chin and tipped it upward. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, and then with deliberate intent he lowered his head and kissed her.

Warm lips touched hers and settled there, his mouth firm but smooth, the pressure light and yet somehow insistent.

The contact might have lasted just a moment, but seemed longer, so long her breath fluttered in her throat. When he did break away, they simply stared at each other. His hazel eyes were a pure green flecked with gold, framed with thick lashes. It was the first time she’d been so close and also the first time she sensed she really had his full attention.

There was no doubt about it; she’d done it. She’d married Harry’s enigmatic younger brother, for better or for worse, and the bargain was sealed with a kiss.

A very enlightening kiss. Rather pleasant, actually, though all the people watching them made her blush.

That moment, a voice inside her said,
Should have happened somewhere quiet and utterly private.
There should have been moonlight, and perhaps a fountain gently splashing in the background, and she certainly imagined she’d be wildly in love with the man who gave her that magical first kiss. . . .

And, naturally, he would be even more passionately devoted to her.

Except this wasn’t a romantic fantasy; this was life. He wasn’t in the least devoted to her, but simply a dutiful son, as she was a dutiful daughter, and they had married to please their families.

Well, they had
that
in common anyway.

Michael Hepburn straightened, looked at her again for a moment with that singular intensity that always made her feel he was seeing much more than the outside woman, and offered her his arm.

That simple. One arm, extended politely, one moment when her life swung into the unknown. Automatically she responded, her fingers cold on his sleeve, clamped over the tense hardness of the bunched muscles under the clasp of her hand.

She flashed a quick glance at his face, noting the impassive outline of his classic profile, seemingly indifferent, but a muscle in his jaw twitched slightly.

Perhaps he wasn’t quite as detached and imperturbable as he seemed. The notion both startled and relaxed her as they faced the assembled guests and he escorted her down the aisle. The sea of faces didn’t register and the sensation was a little as if she floated rather than walked. Outside it was a lovely day, at least, and she took a shuddering, deep breath of fresh air as he guided her down the massive steps of the cathedral to the waiting carriage. The ducal crest shown on the side of the elegant equipage—a blazing image similar to the Stuart coat of arms, indicative of a connection to that royal family going back generations.

She was his
wife
. It would take a while to comprehend the reality of it.

Michael handed her inside the vehicle and clambered up after her, stretching out his long legs and saying something to the footman in formal livery who waited to close the door. The young man nodded, and a moment later the carriage began to roll away.

“You might wish to lean out the window and wave,” her husband suggested, lifting one brow a fraction. “It’s the glowing bride they’ve come to see, not the dull groom.”

There
were
people crowded along the street, she realized, but in her relief to leave the formality of the church and the general sense of bemusement, it hadn’t occurred to her to act the gracious bride.

“I didn’t think of that,” Julianne admitted, feeling gauche. She took his advice, forcing a smile she hoped looked at least half sincere and waving, listening to the spectators cheer in approval.

The ride was a blur and it set the tone for the rest of the day and evening.

Marrying a ducal heir involved a great deal of ceremony. She’d expected it would be intimidating, but the sheer number of guests pouring into the grand ballroom of Southbrook House was overwhelming. The duchess had outdone herself with the lavish decorations; urns of hothouse flowers everywhere; beribboned tables holding all sorts of delicacies from pink curls of shrimp in delicate seashell dishes to all manner of roasted fowl, suckling pig in a currant sauce, and a variety of pastries that must have taken a battalion of chefs to prepare; and dozens of other mouthwatering entrées. Hundreds of candles glittered, and the guests glittered even more with jewels and attire in the height of the latest fashion. The opulence of the celebration would no doubt be the talk of society for quite a while, and Julianne wished she could enjoy even a moment of it.

Just one moment. Was it too much to ask?

Unfortunately, she was just too overwhelmed.

Though she stood next to Michael throughout the ordeal of receiving the felicitations and goodwill of the crowd, they barely spoke to each other. There wasn’t time, really, for much conversation, with the seeming endless stream of visitors and the necessary protocol, so perhaps everyone thought it was normal for the bride and groom to act like polite strangers. If it at all bothered Michael, she couldn’t tell it. When she did manage to chance a quick look at the tall man at her side, he was usually in profile to her, his composure unruffled, strikingly male and attractive in his tailored clothing, and accepting felicitations with ease.

Only once did he touch her, and that was simply a very casual set of his hand at her waist as he introduced her to a dark-haired young woman wearing a stunning gown in a deep red that suited her flamboyant, exotic beauty. Julianne murmured an appropriate greeting, struck for a moment by what might have been a flicker of animosity in the other woman’s eyes. It startled her and brought home afresh how little she knew about the man who had become her husband. Obviously the two were well acquainted, for Michael greeted this particular guest on a first-name basis.
Antonia.
Not an English name in any sense, and the woman’s dramatic coloring and accent reflected her heritage.

“Lady Longhaven,” she murmured with saccharine graciousness, “my congratulations.”

As the woman walked away, the flicker of dismay over just how well acquainted they might be was unwanted, and did not help Julianne’s hard-won and tenuous composure.

She certainly hoped
that
was not an indication of what their life would be like together.

When the room was packed to the point it seemed no one could move, the orchestra began to play. The venue moved from endless greetings to endless dancing, and as the bride, she was in high demand.
All the time spent with the dancing master was worth it,
she mused when she was swung into another waltz as the hours passed. Occasionally someone pressed a glass of champagne into her hand, though she managed to eat very little. Michael also danced often, but not with her.

Her feet began to hurt and her head to pound.

“You look lovely.”

Julianne smiled up at her father—her current partner—but the attempt was rather tremulous. It seemed that as the bride she was not allowed a moment of rest. “Thank you, but I do not think you are unbiased. I am a bit tired, if you must know, but am hoping it doesn’t show. I would hate to disappoint the duchess.”

Once blond but now sporting a head of steel gray hair, his face showing the expected lines, her father still had eyes that were as blue as ever, and he fairly exuded satisfaction that things had gone so well. “I don’t think there’s anyone who would disagree with me you’ve done just fine. I’ve heard more than one gentleman tell your husband he’s a lucky man.”

She had to wonder if he
felt
lucky. It was very hard to tell. Michael Hepburn just didn’t seem like the kind of man who would agree to an arranged marriage, but yet he had.

“Longhaven will treat you well, my dear.”

She certainly hoped so, considering she’d just tied herself to him for life. A nod was her response as they swirled through the moving throng. There wasn’t much question she was starting to become a little light-headed. The night before she’d barely slept, and all the exertion coupled with several glasses of champagne was taking its toll.

It meant she should retire, but that carried another implication aside from being fatigued from all the revelry. With neutral inflection, she commented, “I knew Harry much better, of course.”

“We all did,” her father admitted. He looked distinguished in his formal clothes, the fine lines next to his eyes deepening as he frowned. The music swirled around them, along with the babble of hundreds of conversations. “It seems wrong since this is a celebration, but I suppose it is natural to think of him at this time.”

“I suppose.” Her smile was probably strained.

“I am sure he would wish you and Michael all the happiness in the world. Harry was always such a congenial fellow.” Her father paused. “The new marquess is not quite as easy to know.”

That describes the situation perfectly,
she thought as the music dwindled to the end. There was nothing
easy
about her new husband. Notice how her father called Harry by his first name, and Michael Hepburn by his title. Her searching gaze—for about the hundredth time that evening—swept the room and found a tall man moving with lithe grace among the dancers on the floor, his chestnut hair and clean-cut features striking. Even in the swirl of hundreds of guests he still stood out, and it wasn’t simply his good looks. It was partly how he held himself, with a self-assurance she wasn’t sure was conscious but very much there, and perhaps even more so the quality of intelligence you saw as he looked straight through you with those vivid gold-green eyes.