Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  Face lifted to the sun’s soothing rays, she wrestled her ire and attraction under control. At least the weather had cooperated, and for that small reprieve she was grateful. When she’d declared she was off for a lengthy stroll on this fine spring morning, her sketchpad in hand, no one had quirked so much as an eyebrow. She took frequent walks, often drawing birds and other wildlife she happened upon.

  Today, she daren’t ask Ophelia to come along as a chaperone, else her sister be pulled into the dishonest charade as well. Besides, her twin had a headache and wanted to recover before having tea with Jessica Brentwood this afternoon. Gabriella had cried off joining them.

  Head lowered she gave an unfortunate stone a vicious kick.

  One hour.

  That was precisely how long she would allow Pennington to explain himself before she demanded that he return her here. It had taken all of her self-restraint not to bolt from the Twistletons’ last night. But that would’ve given rise to gossip, and intuition told her there was already going to be enough tongue wagging. Nearly everyone had seen her reaction, and several of her friends and her sister had questioned her about it when the performances ended and the guests were enjoying the tasty refreshments.

  Gabriella had laughed off her response, claiming she’d been startled when the duke revealed he, too, played the violin. It pleased and annoyed her that they had that in common. A smug smile arced her mouth. She’d made sure that tidbit made the rounds. He’d not get off lounging like a great, spoiled cat in the audience next time.

  Still, she’d been obligated to sit beside him for the next interminable hour, her mind a cacophony of raucous thoughts and worry and what very well might’ve been despair. If anyone had asked her impression of a single performance, she couldn’t have answered truthfully. Thank God, no one had. Only, she’d bet her best gown, because her startling reactions to Pennington had piqued far more interest than anything she might have had to say about the recital.

  Ophelia, on the other hand, had noticed. From the tiny vee pulling her fine eyebrows together, she didn’t believe Gabriella’s tarradiddle. She’d never been particularly astute at fibbing. Her eyes usually gave her away, as she hadn’t mastered the ability to look directly into someone’s face and lie through her teeth. Pennington suffered no such qualm, she’d be bound.

  But was she so very different? After all, she’d been lying to him for months now, and yet she didn’t believe the flaw was a permanent black spot upon her character.

  Closing her eyes, she drew in a long, slow breath, counting to ten then reversed the procedure and breathed out slowly, counting to ten again. She repeated this process three times, and on each inhalation and exhalation firmly instructed herself to remain calm and in control. To employ wisdom. To use her wit and intellect. She would—oh, God, I must—find a way out of this conundrum.

  How, she couldn’t conceive.

  A trio of ducks emerged from under the bridge, joining another half dozen or so farther along the embankment. Any other day, she would’ve been eager to sketch them. The crunching of wheels upon gravel alerted her to a vehicle. A smart gig approached from the direction of Chartworth Hall, and even with the sun reflecting off the shiny ebony lacquer, her heart sank impossibly further. The Duke of Pennington tooled the vehicle himself.

  Of course he did

  Hmm. Eyes narrowed, she tapped her toe. Had the duke anticipated she’d come by herself? He must have, because the gig only accommodated two occupants. She nearly swore aloud, realizing he’d outfoxed her. Confound it. She thought she’d outwitted him by meeting him on the bridge. She had the most childish urge to stick her tongue out and stomp her foot.

  She’d anticipated a coachman or an outrider to observe at least a degree of propriety.

  There was nothing for it, however. Pennington would have his say. She’d have hers. And perhaps, just perhaps, an amiable solution might be reached. Truth to tell, she hadn’t much hope of that. But it was worth a try, at least. She must try. If she didn’t punch him in his noble, perfectly straight aristocratic nose first.

  Wise to control her fuming temper then, but how he infuriated her. He maneuvered to force her to sit beside him last night and then oh, so smoothly announced that if she refused to accompany him today, he’d proceed with ruining Grandpapa.

  That he could turn so cold and mercenary after the kisses they shared, bewildered and wounded her. As he drew the magnificent cream-colored, black-maned mare to a stop, Gabriella didn’t even try to conceal her scowl. If she weren’t so irritated with the duke, she would’ve taken a moment to pet the gorgeous creature.

  “Good morning, Gabriella.” His simple greeting contained warmth, a hint of wariness, and perchance even a tinge of regret.

  Giving her his tummy-fluttering smile that no doubt worked to woo other ladies of his acquaintance, he doffed his top hat. After he placed it back upon his midnight hair, he jumped to the ground with agile ease. Adorned in dove gray trousers, his muscular thighs flexed with the motion. His navy coat strained tight across ridiculously wide shoulders, and she cursed herself for noticing.

  Under the brim of his hat, his eyes almost looked the same color. Did their different shades ever bother him? Why did she care? She didn’t, of course.

  “I must return home within the hour, Your Grace, else my grandparents will become suspicious or worried. I told them I was going for a walk and to sketch.” For emphasis, she wobbled her pad and pencils as she eyed the gig knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to climb aboard without his assistance.

  Gabriella didn’t want him to touch her again. Her mind and body reacted in all kinds of silly girlish, foolish ways when he did. She must keep her faculties about her today, for she had but one chance to deter him from whatever he planned to do.

  He swept a gloved hand toward the conveyance. “Shall we, then?”

  No, we should not.

  With a nod, just this side of petulant, she approached the vehicle. He took her pad and pencils and placed them on the seat. With the effortlessness of a man accustomed to physical exertion, he grasped her waist and easily lifted her into the gig.

  Determinedly ignoring her frolicking stomach, she gathered her drawing supplies and claimed a spot. She scooted as far away from him as the bench allowed—a whole three inches. Knowing him, he’d probably chosen this conveyance precisely because the seat was so narrow.

  The vehicle tipped as he sprang aboard, and after he collected the reins, he gave them a gentle shake and clucked his tongue. “Walk on, Aphrodite.”

  With a swish of her majestic ebony tail, the mare ambled forward.

  He would have a mare named after the goddess of fertility. And love. And passion.

  Do shut up!

  Rather than proceeding toward Colechester, the duke steered the horse into a semi-circle, and headed back toward Chartworth Hall.

  Gabriella glanced behind them before facing forward and knitting her brow. She fiddled with the edge of her sketch pad. “Why are we traveling this way? There’s more to see in the other direction.”

  Pennington slid her a sideways look, an undefined smile kicking his mouth up on one side. “Because there’s a secluded grove on my estate away from the main house where I am assured we’ll have privacy, and no one will overhear us. You know the one. It’s across from where I met you the other day.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to be more shocked at his suggestion, infuriated by his brazenness, or worried for her virtue. She chose the latter. Giving a sharp shake of her head, her bonnet’s pink ribbons flying around her chin, she drew herself up. “I’ve already risked my reputation by being alone with you. I shan’t accompany you to some clandestine location where any number of things might happen.”

  The thick arcs of his lashes masking his half-closed eyes, he remained silent for a long, uncomfortable slice of a moment before nodding. “I take your point, Gabriella, but we can hardly have this conversation in the middle of the lane. And I am considering your reputation.” He
had the nerve to flash that cocky smile and wink.

  She almost growled in annoyance.

  “Besides, lest you forget, we’ve been alone several times, including the other night. I do believe your sitting before me on the saddle was much more scandalous than this sedate ride or our interlude in the arbor.”

  Tapping her toes in irritation, a frustrated growl did throttle up her throat, but she firmly squelched it. Stay calm. Do not let him upset you. This isn’t just about you. Think of your family. Nevertheless, Gabriella struggled for cool composure, only achieving a semblance of poise after inhaling and exhaling to a count of ten.

  “Your Grace, I remind you once more.” Gads, but the man could be obtuse. “I haven’t given you leave to use my Christian name. And as for this conversation, does it matter where we have it?” She flung a hand in the air. “You know as well as I that few people travel this track. Furthermore, if you were indeed concerned about my repute, why ever did you kiss me before or arrive in this?” She spread both hands to indicate the conveyance they sat in. On the other hand, a coach might’ve had a driver, but they’d have been enclosed inside, out of everyone’s sight.

  Perhaps… Perhaps this was the wiser choice, after all. How that truth vexed her that he’d likely considered that aspect when she had not.

  Rather than answer, Pennington continued along the road, little puffs of dust rising with each step the mare took. By Jupiter. Did he intend to ignore her?

  Anxiety knotted her shoulders and stomach, and she pressed a hand to her middle. Mayhap she should have broken her fast with something more substantial than tea. She wasn’t afraid exactly. Not of him, or what he might do to her. He’d had the chance to ravish her on more than one occasion, and except for his scalding kisses and that ear nuzzling business, he hadn’t pressed unwanted attentions upon her. Even those didn’t count, since she’d enjoyed them.

  No, what assailed her now was fear of the unknown. She knew he wanted Hartfordshire Court. She also appreciated he wasn’t above using any means to obtain the estate. What she didn’t know, was what role did she play in his plans? Why did he continue to woo her?

  She alternated tapping her feet as the wheels’ crunching and soft clop-clop of Aphrodite’s hooves accented the strained silence between them. A goshawk cried overhead, and a grayish-brown hare, one ear raised in caution, paused in its watchful journey across the grassy meadow. The hawk screamed again, and the hare darted beneath a nearby bush.

  Gabriella well knew how the poor creature felt. This weighty silence and anticipating whatever Pennington wanted to say plucked at her tattered nerves like an out of tune violin.

  An unladylike snort nearly escaped her at the bad comparison.

  “There’s a place just a little bit further along where we can stop near the river,” Pennington finally said. “It’s visible from the road but will allow us a degree of privacy.”

  Twisting on the seat, she faced him. “I don’t understand why you don’t just tell me what is on your mind. Last night, you threatened to ruin my grandfather, and I know you’re plotting to take Hartfordshire Court from him. I overheard you at the Sutcliffes’ house party.”

  There. Let him make of that what he would. She’d been burning to confront him with the truth for days now. He’d find she was no reticent miss, willing to sit by and watch him destroy her family. She’d not make this easy on him.

  A vaguely nonplused look skittered across his face, and she swore red tinged his angular cheeks. “That’s why your behavior toward me changed,” he murmured. Something akin to pain or regret seeped into his tone and glinted in his eyes.

  How dare he seem hurt? He was the one scheming to destroy her family. To take their home. So firmly did she grip her pencil case, her knuckles turned white. Only counting to ten kept her from releasing the full fury of her tongue upon him.

  His chest expanded with a deeply drawn breath as he steered the mare off the road and down the mildly sloping meadow to the river. He better not suggest this was difficult for him too. By Jove, she would plant him a facer if he even hinted at such a preposterous thing.

  Gabriella remained obstinately silent. She’d not absolve him nor would she continue to entreat him to explain himself. A harpy, she was not.

  Once the duke had brought the gig to a stop, he cleared his throat, and after removing his hat and gloves and propping them atop one thigh, scraped his long fingers through those dark sable strands. They glinted the merest bit coppery in the sunlight. “I truly regret you overheard that exchange, Gabriella. And even more so, I apologize for the angst you must’ve endured these past months.” Genuine contrition deepened his voice to a mellow purr, and instead of going all prickly as she ought to, Gabriella cursed herself for softening toward him.

  Dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

  And yet, she had no idea how to respond. She’d expected vehement denials or excuses, not what seemed very much a heartfelt apology. Certainly not that he cared about her feelings or that he felt remorse she’d been worried frantic.

  So, she chose boldness and to go on the offensive as the wisest tactic. “Why are you determined to wrest our home from us? What does my accompanying you today have to do with your ruining my grandfather? And pray tell, how could you possibly conceive that I would aid you in any way, knowing what I do?”

  He relaxed against the seat and holding his hat and gloves in place, propped one booted foot on the edge of the gig then braced a forearm across his bent knee.

  She scowled, steering her avid attention from the interesting bulge at his loins, made prominent by his casual repose. He certainly appeared well-endowed. Mortification consumed her at her wanton thoughts. Why must he appear so dratted manly, so deuced attractive even in this situation?

  Maxwell’s signet ring glinted in the sunlight as he rubbed his fingertips together. Surely he wasn’t anxious as well? He was a duke. A duke! A man accustomed to power and privilege. All he had to do was snap his manicured fingers and just about anything he desired was his. The ludicrous concept that he was uncertain, bewildered her. She knew him capable of tenderness and kindness. She’d witnessed it and had personally experienced his gentleness.

  He stopped fidgeting and laid his hand flat on that absurdly well-formed knee. “I have evidence—indisputable evidence, mind you—that your grandfather cheated my grandfather. Then he blackmailed my grandfather into selling him Hartfordshire Court, which had been my grandmother’s familial home for generations.”

  She choked on a gasp, her gaze flying to his face. “No. That’s utterly absurd. Simply not possible.” Her sketchpad and pencils slid to the floor as she clasped a hand to her throat. “I don’t believe you.” Gabriella slowly shook her head.

  Don’t or cannot? Or…shan’t?

  An excruciatingly minute inched by before he hitched a shoulder, his gaze trained somewhere beyond the frothing river. “Whether you believe me or not, it is the truth. I have irrefutable proof. As a result of your grandfather’s shady dealings, my heartbroken and pregnant grandmother died.”

  No. No. He fabricated that codswallop. Grandpapa wouldn’t. But—

  She shook her head again, as much in denial of his words as her unbidden, perfidious thoughts.

  “A shattered man, incapable of loving anyone afterward—including my father—my grandfather turned to strong drink and laudanum to numb his pain.” A steely harshness rendered his tone clipped and cool. “He grew ever more bitter, unforgiving, and cruel, eventually taking his own life. As often happens when subjected to neglect and unkindness, my father was also given to drink and abuse.”

  Had Maxwell been mistreated by his father? Is that what he was saying? Did he realize his actions were not so very different than his sire’s and grandsire’s? A soft cry escaped her. “I…”

  “Please, hear me out.” His jaw tense, the duke held up a palm. A faint scar marred the flesh from forefinger to thumb.

  Unprepared for the sympathy engulfing her, Gabriella swallowed and folded
her hands in her lap. She clenched her fingers so tightly, the tips tingled.

  He lied. That was all there was to it. He couldn’t be telling the truth. He’d concocted this fanciful tale to steal Hartfordshire Court. Naturally, a wealthy duke’s word would be believed over a humble land owner.

  Her gentle Grandpapa was not capable of this sort of subterfuge. This evilness. This vileness. He simply wasn’t.

  Was he?

  Tears stung her eyes, and she allowed the lids to drift shut as she battled to subdue her shock and grief. She would not give the duke the satisfaction of seeing her defeated and weeping.

  “I only learned of this…your grandfather’s part, last December,” he continued softly. Again, a hint of regret or compassion made his voice rough. “Since then, I’ve been determined to return Hartfordshire Court to its rightful owners. Although my grandfather signed the deed of sale, the property was never legally transferred.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “The duchy has continued to pay the land and window taxes. I’ve spoken to my steward about that oversight, and he said the previous steward had always paid them, so he assumed he should continue to as well.”

  “It’s not true,” Gabriella breathed, barely recognizing her own raggedy, fragile voice. She swallowed again. “It cannot possibly be true.” She sounded like a well-trained parrot. But, a person didn’t live with someone for fifteen years and not know their character. Grandpapa was not a charlatan.

  She wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet. What proof could Maxwell have?

  “Yes, Gabriella, it is. I swear, every word.”

  Such gentleness, and yes, even sympathy tempered his words, that tears welled again. Far easier for her to bear if he’d been all haughty, cold, accusing arrogance. Oh God. She held herself tightly, rocking forward and back. She didn’t want to believe a single word, but it explained so much over the years.

  Why her grandfather rarely left Hartfordshire Court. Why he hadn’t any friends to speak of. Why Grandpapa held such animosity toward Maxwell.