Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  “What…?” Bile, bitter and hot burned her throat. To have to even ask meant he knew she had doubts. She swallowed and forced the words out. “What proof have you?”

  Maxwell took her hand, the action natural and comforting. A loyal granddaughter would’ve jerked free, railed at him, and rained curses down upon his handsome head. Yet she didn’t.

  Never before had she felt so fragile, that she might shatter with her next breath. Her whole world crumbled around her, and she was powerless to stop the destruction. To prevent the inevitable devastation this would wreak upon the people she most loved. Gabriella refused to berate herself for her momentary weakness. She was strong, but anyone who’d been dealt such a blow would need time to recover.

  “I found my grandfather’s journal in a hidden desk drawer. An entry revealed there’d been a card game with marked cards.” The duke spoke slowly, his voice neutral, much like a barrister presenting a case before judges. “The entry also included the names of two other men involved. Herman Wakefield died a number of years ago, but my man of business was able to locate Wilson, Baronet Garrison. I’ve personally spoken with him, and he’s provided a sworn statement. As young bucks up from university, a trifle disguised and short on funds, they agreed to vow my grandfather marked the cards in exchange for a few pounds apiece.”

  Gabriella pinched her lips together. “How do you know this Garrison person is telling the truth, Maxwell?” It occurred to her she’d slipped into using his given name with unnerving ease.

  Even if he was lying, why would his grandfather have made such an entry if it weren’t true? By their very nature, that was what journals were. A place to share all the secrets one couldn’t reveal to the world.

  Only the merest movement of his eyes indicated he’d heard her use of his given name. “What reason would he have to do so after all of these years?” He still held her hand. “No, Garrison’s sickly and not long for this world. He said he wanted to right a wrong, and swears he had no idea your grandfather later blackmailed my grandfather and obtained Hartfordshire Court as a result.”

  She pulled her hand free, needing to cover her face and hide the stubborn tears seeping from her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. It was impossible. Her grandfather couldn’t be that kind of a scoundrel. A cheat. For if he was, then everything she’d known for the past fifteen years was a lie, and the Penningtons were indeed entitled to Hartfordshire Court.

  Gabriella had never considered Maxwell might have a legitimate reason for his actions. She’d behaved abominably toward him, and he’d always remained a gentleman. Profound remorse and chagrin turned her cheeks hot.

  Did Grandmama know of her husband’s duplicity? Is that why she seldom ventured from Hartfordshire either? Had their dishonesty made them prisoners in the very house they’d stolen?

  Listen to yourself. Have you so little faith in the people who’ve cared for you for over fifteen years? Can you so easily put aside your trust? Surely there’s a logical explanation.

  Lifting her face, she stared at the wildly rushing river. She appreciated how that tumultuous water felt. Tumbling over itself, bashed against the banks and the stones. Having no control over where it went, pushed and pulled along pell-mell.

  A silent sigh whispered past her lips just as a crisp, white handkerchief appeared in her line of vision. “Here, chèrie.”

  “I’m sure you understand that I should like to see the journal and Garrison’s statement,” she said softly. Guilt riddled her at even speaking the words.

  “That can be arranged.” No victory or triumph colored his voice. “I plan on presenting them to your grandfather in any event.”

  After drying her face, she folded his handkerchief and clutching it in one hand, studied her lap. “Why did you tell me this? I’m quite certain there’s nothing I can do to prevent you from continuing along the path you’ve already started.” A path he had a right to pursue if what he said was true. She raised her gaze and canted her head, straining to read his indecipherable features. “You spoke of ruin last night.”

  After wedging his hat and gloves between his thigh and the carriage side, he cupped her cheek. Rather than pulling away as she ought to do, as a woman presented with devastating information about the man who’d raised her was obliged to do, she closed her eyes instead.

  And then she was in Maxwell’s strong arms, his warm, firm lips kissing her forehead, her eyes, her nose and finally, settling wondrously upon her mouth and tasting of coffee.

  The world went silent. Utterly and completely. For certain the river still tumbled along, birds sang in the treetops, and the wind brushed her fingers through the verdant leaves and branches, but Gabriella heard them not. A coach and four might have passed on the road or thunder pealed through the heavens and she’d have heard neither.

  And how did she respond to the passionate play upon her lips, the miserable, traitorous wretch that she was?

  She looped her arms around his sturdy neck and kissed him back. Kissed him like a drowning woman gasping for air. Kissed him, as if this was the very last day she had to live, and everything she’d kept hidden, had denied even to herself, she could at last reveal, because nothing mattered anymore. And if in the midst of this horror, this nightmare, the imploding of her life, she could seize one tiny particle of happiness then by God, she’d do so.

  I deserve it.

  Even if Maxwell was the man about to wreak hell itself on her family and destroy everything Ophelia and Gabriella had ever known?

  That sobering thought finally brought her to her senses, plunging her back to the awful present, and she jerked away, regret replacing her passion. “Your Grace…”

  His breathing raspy, as if he struggled every bit as much as she to bring herself under control, he swiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. Tears she wasn’t even aware leaked from her eyes once more.

  “Since I aim to marry you, chérie, you might as well continue to address me as Maxwell.”

  Whatever reaction Max had expected Gabriella to have, this wasn’t it. She laughed. Not a dainty feminine tinkle, but a full on bent over at the waist, gasping for breath, belly laugh. His lips quirked of their own accord at her jubilant chuckles. He’d never seen her unfettered mirth and it was glorious. The reason for it, not as much.

  Her focus snapped upward, her eyes going wide as she slapped a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders continued to shake, and the moisture pooling in her eyes now the color of turbulent clouds, was humor-induced. Beneath the straw bonnet shading her face, her beautiful gaze rounded impossibly more with realization.

  “You’re not serious?” Sobering, she knuckled away the moisture at the corner of her eyes. She leaned away, working her attention over him twice. “Stars above. You are. Are you utterly mad?”

  Yes, he probably was.

  Rather put a man off having his proposal laughed at, but then again, he hadn’t exactly proposed in the most romantic way. Nothing about this was meant to be romantic. In fact, he wouldn’t call it a marriage proposal at all, but rather bartering terms. She didn’t know that yet, however.

  Nonetheless, he knew her well enough to realize she wouldn’t be pleased at what he said next. Would that he could go back six months, when he first recognized his feelings for Gabriella were more than admiration and attraction. Before he found his grandfather’s diary, and Max started them upon this irreversible course.

  While he had no doubt she would eventually agree to become his duchess, might even enjoy the physical aspect of their joining, he never believed she’d come to hold him in any regard. Especially after she learned of his terms.

  What did that matter?

  Most peers married for convenience. For power, position, coin. In this, he wasn’t so very different, except that he meant to reclaim that which had been stolen from his family.

  Damn his eyes, but a part of him wished it wasn’t the reason.

  She sat silent, her head slightly angled and her keen gaze still roving his face. Her a
ttention lingered on his lips before flitting away. Was she remembering what had transpired between them but a few minutes ago?

  Gabriella was attracted to him. The smoldering kisses they’d shared left no doubt.

  He didn’t dare ask for more. Didn’t deserve more.

  He’d chosen this path, perhaps not knowing all the consequences, but fully aware of what he must do. For justice, for righteousness and fairness. To avenge his grandmother, grandfather, and the child—the aunt or uncle he’d never known. And perhaps, part of this was revenge for himself as well.

  His grandfather’s inability to show kindness or love to his son had made Bronson a victim as well. And Bronson, a stranger to affection, had never learned how to love anyone, let alone his only child. Max had never experienced the love of a parent. Or a grandparent’s. Or a sister’s or brother’s.

  For all of his many friends at Bon Chance, some he considered as close as brothers and for whom he’d willingly die, no one in the entirety of his life, had ever said they loved him. He’d never heard the words, “I love you,” directed to him.

  He gave a little shake of his head, dispelling his self-pitying musings. This wasn’t about him. Isn’t it?

  Perchance, he wasn’t so very different than his sire or grandsire, after all. He hadn’t expected his duchess would love him any more than he’d ever anticipated being struck by Cupid’s arrow. Ah, but Grandfather had loved Grandmother. And look where that landed him? Too late for sentiment now, in any event. The die was cast, and there was naught to do but for Max to collect his winnings, no matter how acrimoniously acquired. What’s done is done.

  What an absurd time for Shakespeare to intrude upon his thoughts.

  Gabriella had at last brought her chuckling under control, and as she continued to do at every turn, she surprised him once more. Rather than resort to histrionics or become a watering pot, she squared her shoulders and jutted that pert chin upward. “Your Grace—”

  “Maxwell or Max, which is what I prefer. Unless you wish to address me as Pennington,” he corrected quietly. “But even after seven years, whenever I hear the title, I still expect to glance over my shoulder and see my grandfather standing there.”

  Her eyebrows shied high on her smooth forehead. In that, she must’ve decided to concede. To mollify him or simply because it was easier?

  “Maxwell, you may have the means to reclaim Hartfordshire Court, and though I’m loath to admit it, I do suspect what you’re telling me is, at least, partially true. Nonetheless, I’m certain you can appreciate how devastating this news is. However, and regardless of the outcome, no way exists which will compel me to marry you.” She skewed her mouth and crinkled her nose in the adorable way she did when confused or vexed. At least her toes weren’t pattering away. Yet. “Besides, I fail to understand how one has anything whatsoever to do with the other.”

  Leaning back, he threaded his fingers together behind his head. This was where she would kick up a dust. Where he could expect recriminations, accusations, and protestations. No displays of emotions would make a jot of difference.

  The sun’s warmth felt glorious, and despite the impossibility of the situation, he relaxed, almost sliding into a drowsy doze. He hadn’t slept last night. Truth be told, he hadn’t slept much since deciding on this course of action. Because, despite being an utter arse for what he was about to do, he meant to proceed. His conscience and self-recriminations be damned.

  “Maxwell, I need to return ho—that is to Hartfordshire Court.” As she spoke, a bold bird landed atop Aphrodite’s back and cocking its head, stared at them with curious little ebony eyes. A small smile quirked Gabriella’s mouth as she whispered, “Hello there.”

  The bird took to wing as Max observed her through half-open eyes. “Already decided Hartfordshire isn’t home any longer, have you?” He’d never been particularly fond of his childhood home, yet her distress was tangible and regret speared him.

  A stricken expression chased her smile away, and angst whisked across her lovely face then was gone. He couldn’t help but admire her ability to swiftly compose herself, and neither could he prevent the remorse gripping him that he’d caused her distress.

  “Over an hour has passed, and they’ll be expecting me,” she quietly reminded him.

  Gabriella Breckensole had pluck and resilience. She’d accepted the situation and attempted to make the best of it.

  “I intend to speak to my grandfather about this matter as soon as I return home, Maxwell. I’m still not convinced your tale is true or accurate.”

  Her straightforwardness didn’t surprise him. Did she truly believe Breckensole, who’d built his entire life on a series of lies, her life and Ophelia’s as well, would tell the truth?

  Straightening, Max dropped his foot to the coach floor. Hard. “I intend the same thing. But before we go, please listen to my proposal.”

  Her arched eyebrows crumpled together, and she brushed away an insect that had landed on her pale pink gown. “Is that a marriage proposal or another sort of proposal? For surely, you cannot believe I would marry you after this. Besides, I’m certain you wish a more noble duchess than the granddaughter of a clergyman’s disgraced son.”

  That she could make a quip, given what she’d just learned, impressed him.

  Max clenched his jaw and curled his toes in his too-damn tight boots, going over the speech he’d rehearsed so many times in his mind. Speaking the words aloud though, wasn’t as easy as he’d anticipated. Saying them made everything all too real. Cruel and heartless.

  “Gabriella.” He chose to focus on the burbling water rather than her pale face with those too-big accusing eyes. “I intend to tell your grandfather that he, your grandmother, and your sister may continue to reside at Hartfordshire Court—”

  “You would do that?” she gasped, clasping his forearm. “Even with what you know?” Wonder filled her voice.

  “Don’t become too excited or raise your hopes, chérie.” He cut her a short glance.

  She dropped her hand back into her lap, her mouth pursed and hazel gaze accusing.

  He focused on a large boulder dividing the river. Far easier to do than witness her reaction. Her disappointment and disillusionment. Perhaps, even her hatred. When did I become a coward too?

  At the moment, he didn’t much like himself and doubted he’d ever do so again.

  “I shall insist upon your grandfather offering Hartfordshire Court as your dowry. Through our children, the estate will revert to my family as it should.” The idea of this woman carrying his child speared a burst of lust so strong, he had to swallow and shift his position before continuing. “Until such time she weds, Ophelia may either reside with your grandparents or live with us. I shall also permit your grandparents to remain at Hartfordshire until their deaths.”

  His man of business had done his research. Harold Breckensole had no legal heirs, save Gabriella and her twin. The estate would’ve passed to them had it been properly transferred.

  Gabriella slumped into her seat, disbelief wreathing her face.

  “By taking these measures, my family will regain Hartfordshire Court, but your grandparents, and thereby you, and your sister, will be spared the scandal that will ensue if I have to make your grandfather’s cheating, blackmail, and tax fraud public. Furthermore, since the duchy has paid Hartfordshire’s taxes all these years and the estate is still registered in my family’s name, this is the wisest recourse.” He pulled on his gloves, giving her time to digest what she’d just heard.

  Putting two fingers to her temple, she rubbed them in a circular motion and began tapping her toes in that familiar cadence. “Can’t you simply have a written agreement with my grandfather that upon his and my grandmother’s deaths, the property reverts back to you? Or is that even necessary?” She scrunched her nose. “According to you, the deed was never transferred. Could we not just pay rents?”

  Yes, he could permit Breckensole to remain and let Hartfordshire Court, but he doubted the man
had the funds. The matter of the back taxes must be addressed as well. There was no way on God’s green earth Breckensole hadn’t known he wasn’t paying his taxes. The blasted deed of sale was also an issue.

  Max’s solicitor had warned if they went to court over the matter, there was a small—very small—chance the document might be enforceable. As if things weren’t complicated enough, even if it turned out Breckensole legally owned Hartfordshire Court despite the manner in which he’d gained the estate, he owed decades of taxes plus interest to the duchy.

  Funds, Max knew full well, Breckensole didn’t have and had absolutely no hope of acquiring. In essence, the taxes were a lien upon the estate. And what was more on point, he wasn’t feeling at all charitable. He wanted Breckensole to suffer. Wanted him to suffer the way his grandfather and grandmother had suffered. The way his father had suffered.

  The way he had suffered.

  What he didn’t want, damn his eyes, was for Gabriella to suffer too. The only way that wouldn’t happen is if he was a bloody magnanimous saint and forgave the whole debacle. Resentment welled, and his gut cramped. That he couldn’t do. Wouldn’t do.

  Breckensole didn’t deserve the reprieve.

  “Couldn’t we, please?” she all but pleaded, placing her small hand on his forearm again.

  Max understood what it took this regal woman to put aside her pride and utter those words. To beg. She didn’t grovel for herself, but for her family, as he’d known she would. Her sacrifice heaped more coals upon his already guilty conscience.

  He shook his head before donning his hat. “It’s not possible. My desire is to avoid gossip and a scandal. There’s been enough of that in recent years, tarnishing the dukedom.”

  Damn my duchy and my family’s reputation. Some things, Gabriella and her wishes, are more important than my bloody good name and repute.

  So expressive were her eyes, he could practically read her thoughts tripping about in her mind. “I’ve already had my solicitor draw up an agreement,” he advised without looking in her direction again, for his resolve wavered. “I also have a special license. And as soon as the contract is signed between your grandfather and me, you and I shall be married. If that’s the route you decide you want to take.” Bringing his attention back to her, he ran his gaze over her face.