Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she’d never thought of marrying. He checked the question. It wouldn’t matter, for he knew her future even if she did not as yet.

  “How fares Jackson and your grandmother?” He curled his hand into the grass to keep from grasping her silken locks teasing the mound of her derriere.

  “Grandmama is determined to leave her bed today.” She frowned at her drawing as she added a bit of shadowing. “And Jackson is resting as well as can be expected. He’s in a lot of pain, poor man.”

  “I arranged to have your grandfather’s coach repaired at my expense.” Max hadn’t intended to mention that. He’d wanted to surprise her. She’d blamed herself for the mishap, though in all honesty, the advanced age of the conveyance was to blame.

  One hand half-raised to the wisp of hair flitting about her ear, she glanced at him in open-mouthed astonishment. “Why? He was utterly hateful to you last night. I still burn from mortification at his behavior. I cannot understand it.”

  “I did it for you, chérie.”

  Gabriella laid her drawing materials aside then adjusted her position so that she faced him. “Why? You’ve no reason I can think of to be kind and generous, and to take such actions on my behalf.”

  So like her. Direct and to the point. Max would seldom have to wonder what went on in her head. She’d wasn’t exactly reticent about telling him, even when it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  I also must ask you, once again, to direct your attentions elsewhere. I am not now, nor will I ever be, receptive to them.

  Her words from yesterday hurt, and they ought not to.

  He turned her hand over and drew his finger across her palm. “Because I want to be your friend. Possibly, something more.”

  She stared at him for the longest stretch. It dragged on and on, emotions flitting across her face in rapid succession. At last, she turned her pink mouth down, sighed, and withdrew her hand. “That’s not possible, and I think you must know it.”

  Gabriella averted her gaze, afraid Maxwell would see the tears pooling in her eyes. She preferred it when he was his usual abominable cocky self, not this tender man. It made her wish for things that could never be.

  He rubbed his thumb over her cheek, and she raised her wary gaze to collide with his. “You had a bit of charcoal, just there.”

  The queerest longing to turn her face into his hand assailed her. Why did he have this power over her? Her head told her he was dangerous. No good. A man not to be trusted. She knew that to be true of him as well.

  Nevertheless, her fickle heart had taken to him months ago. Gabriella couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment she suspected she was more than smitten with his charm and undeniably striking looks. With his smile, his droll wit, and the way his eyes lit up when he was with his friends.

  Yes, she did wish she’d been born a different person and that he had been too. Then maybe there would’ve been a chance for them. As things were now…

  “Chérie. You’re crying.”

  His awed whisper tumbled her back to the present, but before she could swipe away the evidence of her upset, he sat up and gathered her into his arms. “What has you distraught?” He murmured into her hair while stroking her back. “Tell me. Mayhap I can help.”

  No, you cannot.

  She should pull away. Slap his face. However, the plain truth was, she didn’t want to. Being held in his arms felt the most natural thing in the world, and she’d dreamed of it so often before she’d overheard him that day last December.

  He tilted her chin up. “Gabby?” His gaze sank to her mouth, and she was lost.

  Leaning in, she grasped his lapel and lifted her mouth in silent invitation. With a strangled groan, he crushed his lips to hers. Lights and flashes exploded behind her eyes, as he nibbled and explored the recesses of her mouth. She looped her arms around his neck, desperate to draw him nearer.

  To have this moment, no matter how wrong or how much she’d regret it later.

  She breathed Max in, memorizing his scent, the shape of his mouth, the taste of him, the feel of his sculpted form beneath her palms.

  He splayed a hand on the small of her back and framed her face with the other. “You are so beautiful.” He nuzzled her neck, and she allowed her head to fall back to give him greater access. He skimmed her ribs, his fingers mere inches from her breasts. “Let me call on you, Gabby, and speak to your grandfather about paying my addresses. We could be so good together.”

  Those words doused her passion as surely as if he’d tossed her into the river sweeping past them a few feet from away. What game did he play?

  Jerking away, she pressed her fingers to her throbbing mouth and shook her head so hard her hair ribbon came loose. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind? God, how could she kiss him when she knew what he intended. What kind of a wanton was she? Equally mortified and furious that he’d so easily duped her, she swiftly gathered her drawing materials.

  A perplexed frown furrowed his brow. “Gabby…? What’s wrong?”

  She plopped her bonnet upon her head and scrambled to her feet, standing unsteadily. Shaking, angry at herself for being weak and stupid, and at him for kissing so wonderfully that she’d forgotten who he was, she jutted her chin out.

  “I’ve tried delicacy due to your station being so much more elevated than mine, but at every turn, you continue to press your suit and now have dared to go beyond the mark and kiss me.”

  “Hold on there.” He held up a hand, his tone and expression guarded. “You offered your mouth, and you wanted that kiss as much as I did. Don’t you dare deny it.”

  Scorching heat swept from her breasts to her forehead. “Yes. Yes, I did. My curiosity overcame my common sense, but this was a huge mistake and shan’t happen again.”

  “Are you suggesting you only kissed me out of virginal curiosity?” Curse his noble eyebrow flying high up his forehead in disbelief.

  “Of course. What other reason could there be?” Indeed, Gabriella Fern Miriam Breckensole. What possible reason?

  He rose, all lean, sinewy muscle and animal-like grace. “You tell me, chérie.” His voice as smooth as silk held a dangerous note, and a tremor rattled through her.

  “Oh, you are insufferable! Simply impossible. A puffed-up, arrogant toad.” She stamped a foot, wishing she had the nerve to kick him in the shin.

  He folded his arms and smirked. “Indeed.”

  “Leave me alone, Your Grace. I mean it.”

  His smile grew wider and impossibly smugger, and he dared to shake his midnight head.

  Itching to lay a palm across his angular face, she presented her back. “I shall give you the Cut Direct. I swear I shall.” Though it likely meant goading a bear. Tears made dual tracks down her face as she all but ran from him.

  “Je suis désolé, chérie, but it will make no difference.”

  Four days later, at precisely three of the clock, Gabriella climbed the impressive steps to Ridgewood Court, the Sutcliffes’ ducal country house. The afternoon proved one of the lovelier this spring: the temperature pleasant, the sky crystal clear, and the gentlest breeze teasing the new foliage, budding flowers, and the wisps of hair framing her face.

  Today, as they did every third Thursday of the month, she and her sister as well as several other of the local gentry not yet in London for the onset of the Season, met for tea and an afternoon of cards. If the weather permitted, guests might take to the lawns for strolls, shuttlecock, or lawn bowling.

  Gabriella had deliberately stayed close to home these past days. No trips to Colechester, no evening engagements, and no much-coveted excursions about the countryside either. She’d take no chances of running into the Duke of Pennington. No chances of foolishly indulging in more exquisite kisses that left her senses reeling, and her common sense and indignation fizzled to pathetic embers. She must keep her umbrage fully ablaze to battle her ever-growing attraction to the man.

  There was still the musical gathering at the Twiste
ltons’ to sort out. She and Ophelia had already said they were attending, and Nicolette would be disappointed if they cried off now. Gabriella had no idea what excuse she could give Ophelia or their grandparents either. Nevertheless, she had severe second—make that third—thoughts about the wisdom of going since he would be there.

  Especially given the delivery of two stunning cloaks yesterday: one mazurine blue velvet and labeled “Ophelia” and an emerald green one, with Gabriella’s name pinned to the collar. No card accompanied the garments, which caused both grandparents’ graying eyebrows to skip about on their wrinkled foreheads.

  The conversation replayed in her head, word for word.

  “It would seem you girls have an admirer.” Grandmama had brushed her fingertips over the fine cloth before slicing them a considering glance. “Do you have any notion who it might be?”

  “I haven’t a clue, but the cloaks are magnificent. I suppose we must return them,” Ophelia had murmured, clearly not liking the idea at all. She brushed her cheek against the fabric, sighing. “Is this similar to the one you ordered for me, Gabby?”

  Grandpapa had let that tidbit slip during his rant about the stolen horses, damaged coach, and Pennington’s unmitigated gall. Gabriella hadn’t intended to mention it and distress her sister.

  “Very much so,” she had admitted. “But how can we return them, when we don’t know who sent them? I suppose we could ask the local seamstresses, but that might prove awkward. Besides, there’s no guarantee they were fashioned in Colechester.”

  Gabriella had a very good idea who was behind the gifts—a very good idea indeed— but she’d bite her tongue in half before voicing her suspicions. She didn’t relish another scene with her grandfather and truly feared he’d do something awful, such as torch the gorgeous mantles, if he thought the duke was the benefactor. “I suppose we’ll have to donate them.”

  She hated acknowledging how much that saddened her. Both were utterly exquisite, and she was womanly enough to appreciate the fine workmanship. How the duke had managed to commission them in such a short time bespoke his power and influence. Likely, the seamstress had a much heavier purse for her efforts as well.

  Grandpapa poked his head above the week-old newssheet. He’d never pay for a current copy but gladly accepted the papers sent their way from the Sutcliffes and Sheffields. “Could they be a surprise birthday gift from your cousin Everleigh, and the note somehow became lost? It is your first and twentieth birthdays in two days, and certainly the occasion warrants something remarkable.”

  Ophelia perked up and grabbed Gabriella’s hand. “I vow, that must be it! We can ask her at tea tomorrow.” At once a frown marred her pretty face. “Though I don’t suppose we ought to wear them to tea until we know for certain.”

  “I must agree, my dear,” Grandmama gently said. “I expect your grandfather has the right of it, however.”

  And so here they were for their monthly tea, Ophelia convinced Everleigh was behind the luxurious gift and Gabriella equally certain the duke was. She’d mentioned the mazurine cloak the day of the coach accident, and she didn’t believe in coincidences. If she weren’t so blasted annoyed with him, she’d have been touched by the thoughtful gesture. He knew it too, drat the charming rake.

  Two reasons had compelled her to accompany Ophelia today. First, the duke had never put in an appearance in all the months Everleigh had hosted the monthly tea, and secondly, the only way to know for certain who sent the mantles was to ask her cousin.

  As they reached the top riser, a shiny black coach bearing a ducal crest rocked to a stop.

  Gabriella turned in expectation. Everleigh poked her head out and waved gaily. “Hello, darlings!”

  Such a change had come over her since marrying the Duke of Sheffield. She positively radiated happiness these days. Gabriella eyed her cousin’s belly. Was she enceinte? Hmm, that might explain the glow.

  Everleigh’s step-niece, Rayne Wellbrook followed her descent, and then another young woman Gabriella wasn’t acquainted with stepped onto the courtyard.

  Once inside and having been divested of their outerwear, Everleigh smiled and drew the petite, strawberry-blonde forward. “Gabriella and Ophelia, may I introduce Miss Sophronie Slater from the Americas? Her father is one of Sheffield’s business partners. “Ronie, these are my cousins, Ophelia and Gabriella Breckensole.”

  Miss Slater offered a shallow curtsy and a bright smile, revealing not quite perfectly straight teeth. Her eyes glinted with excitement. “Everleigh speaks of you often. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My, you are indistinguishable from each other. Did you ever play pranks and switch places?”

  Everleigh laughed, whilst shaking a finger at them. “Yes, they did.”

  Chatting, the five women made their way to the drawing room. At once, Gabriella sensed this was no typical Thursday tea. Far more guests milled about than usually did, and there were several she didn’t recognize. She sent Ophelia, a what-is-going-on? look, and her sister lifted her shoulder an inch.

  Theadosia spied them and broke into a wide smile. She hurried their way, hands outstretched, the small mound of her belly preceding her.

  Gabriella surveyed the room again, and her stomach pitched. Ballocks and bunions.

  He was here.

  There, by the window, too deucedly attractive for her peace of mind. His heated, predatory gaze met hers, and he inclined his sable head. She nearly turned on her heels and headed straight for the carriage. She’d promised to cut him, but Ophelia had already ventured farther into the room with Rayne and Miss Slater.

  Gabriella edged near Thea and whispered in her ear. “Why are there so many in attendance today?

  Theadosia pressed a hand to her throat and chuckled low. “Well, several of my regulars brought guests. It’s a good thing I planned for yard games.”

  Thirty of the most uncomfortable minutes Gabriella had ever endured passed before she could bear it no longer and begged to be excused to use the necessary. Anything to put distance between herself and Maxwell. Besides, Theadosia and Sutcliffe where about to usher their guests outdoors.

  Maxwell hadn’t approached her, so perhaps he’d taken her warning to heart. Yet, she knew full well, as did he, she would not cut him here. Not with her sister present. Ophelia would never live down the disgrace. And then she’d have to explain her actions, for neither Theadosia or Everleigh would let such ill-behavior go any more than Nicolette would.

  As she made her way to the room set aside for the ladies’ personal needs, she frowned. Where was Nicolette?

  After splashing a bit of water on her cheeks, then pinching them to bring a spot of color to her pale face, she stared at her reflection. Though it was two seasons old, her light blue gown complemented her coloring. It did nothing for the haunted look in her eyes, however. She feared the truth of Maxwell’s plans must come out sooner than she’d wanted, and then where would she and the rest of her family be?

  She closed her eyes and drew in a slow, deliberate breath. Stop hiding from him. You’re made of sterner stuff. Nonetheless, she chose a meandering route to the lawns where the others had retreated and instead of joining them, took a seat in a sheltered arbor off the terrace.

  From there, laughter and calls of encouragement and the occasional muffled curse carried to her on the breeze. What a fine bumblebroth this was. She, the keeper of a dastardly secret and much too interested in the man who could very well ruin her family.

  “I wondered where you’d sneaked off to.” Without an invitation, Maxwell settled his large frame beside her. What had been a comfortable nook at once became too confined and cramped. His scent filled the small area, and despite her determination not to respond to him, her nostrils quivered and anticipation made her stomach flip-flop.

  Gabriella forced herself to inhale and count to ten to compose a civil retort.

  “I didn’t sneak, and you should not be here.” She refused to look at him, for if she did, she would be lost. “And neither should you have
sent the cloaks. Grandpapa is convinced Everleigh commissioned them for my sister’s and my birthday presents, but I know it was you.”

  Maxwell neither admitted nor denied the accusation. Leaning back, he stretched his impossibly long, black-clad legs before him. He sighed and eyes closed, rested his head against the back of the arbor. “Thank you for not cutting me.”

  Sincere or mocking?

  Examining him surreptitiously from beneath her half-lowered eyelids, Gabriella tightened her mouth. His thick lashes fanning his chiseled cheekbones couldn’t hide the lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes or the shadows beneath them. She’d like to think the past few days had robbed him of as much sleep as they had her. That he also struggled with his conscience as well as his attraction to her.

  “You look tired, Your Grace,” she murmured before she could stop herself then silently berated the impulse. He might mistake it for caring or concern.

  But she did care and that frustrated her to no end. She shouldn’t. Not about him.

  He cracked his blue eye open, and gave her a long, undiscernible look. Was that regret and tenderness there or was the filtered light playing tricks? Or…was she manufacturing what she hoped to see?

  “I’ve had much on my mind,” he finally said, opening both eyes.

  She made a noncommittal noise then tipped her mouth up at Jessica Brentwood’s cry of delight. “I’ve bested you, Bainbridge,” Jessica laughed. “Now you owe me an ice at Gunter’s.”

  “Gabriella?”

  The peaceful afternoon had lulled her into a drowsy state. Nights of little sleep might be blamed as well. She hid a yawn behind her hand, knowing she ought to join the others, but unable to muster the energy or the desire to do so. “Hmm?”

  “You’ve never explained why you disdain my company.” His usual arrogance was absent. “I can only assume I’ve offended you in some way, and for that I apologize.”

  She sighed, wishing she dared tell him all, but afraid to reveal what she knew. Hence, she decided on a different tact. “I see no point in encouraging your interest when we both know nothing can come of it. You’re a duke, and I am a dowerless country miss. There can never be more between us. You are expected to make a brilliant match, and in truth, I am not certain I’ll ever marry.”