Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  Gabriella caught Ophelia’s eye. “Come with me,” she mouthed above their grandmother’s head.

  An imperceptible flicker of Ophelia’s lashes suggested she understood. “Grandmama, permit me to help Gabriella. I’ll come down straightaway once she’s settled.”

  A smile arced their grandmother’s lined face. “I sometimes forget how close the two of you are. Go along, Ophelia. I suspect your grandfather will be several minutes more in any event. I don’t know how I shall pacify Cook. She was quite put upon, having to prepare a meal worthy of a duke on such short notice, and when she learns he’s not staying to dine, I truly fear she may give notice.”

  Gabriella bent and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “I’m sure you can console her adequately.”

  “Let us hope so, for as we all know, I am a dismal cook.” She chuckled, in the best humor Gabriella had seen her in for some time.

  She didn’t exaggerate. Ophelia and Gabriella could do a kitchen justice if required to do so, but Grandmama’s talents were with a needle or a hairbrush and hair pins, not a pot and spoon.

  Once in her chamber, Gabriella made straight for her wardrobe. Before Ophelia had finished closing the door, she’d pulled out a simple gown and her half boots.

  “What are you about?” Ophelia demanded, crossing her arms. “Hasn’t there been enough chaos and calamity for one day?”

  “I must speak with Maxwell before he leaves. I’ll await him in the stables.” Gabriella presented her back. “Now, do hurry and unfasten me. I’m counting on you to keep my confidence and to prevent Grandmama from checking upon me too.” Impatient and fearing he’d leave before she caught him, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Ophelia hadn’t moved but regarded her with a rather too astute stare. A fine eyebrow crept upward and a hint of amusement played about her mouth. “Maxwell?”

  Oh, piddle. His name had slipped out without Gabriella even noticing.

  “Oh, Gabby. You do care for him.” Suddenly, she grinned and rushed to Gabriella. “I knew it. Naturally, when he was being so very beastly and impossibly ducal, you couldn’t agree to marry him. I confess, I do quite like him despite his being a Pennington,” she declared as she swiftly unfastened the hooks holding Gabriella’s gown shut. “And I think he’s good for you.”

  Good for me?

  Yes, he was.

  In short order, Gabriella had changed and donned her simple woolen cloak. Holding hands, the sisters stepped into the empty passage. On tiptoes, Gabriella hurried to the landing, carefully leaning over to inspect the blessedly empty foyer below.

  Ophelia winked, giving a cheeky grin. “I’ll go first and signal when all is clear.” She was enjoying this misadventure too much. “This is jolly good fun,” she whispered, grabbing Gabriella’s hand and giving her cold fingers a squeeze.

  Gabriella hadn’t thought to don her gloves. She’d been in too much of a hurry. There wasn’t time to go back for them now, however. Maxwell might depart at any moment.

  “Just don’t do something foolish and impulsive such as elope with him.” A tiny frown scrunched Ophelia’s nose. “Grandmama and Grandpapa would never let me out of the house again. I’d die here, a prune of an old maid.” She squeezed Gabriella’s hand again. “Besides, I want to see you marry. Promise me, Gabby.”

  If Maxwell asked her to trot off to Scotland, Gabriella would. Indeed, she would.

  “I don’t think there’s any chance of that, Fee,” she murmured, wishing with all of her heart that there was.

  Scandal be damned.

  Five minutes later, Gabriella carefully slipped into the stables. Maxwell’s horse poked his majestic head over the stall door, raising it up and down, almost in an equine bow. A long swoosh of breath blew past her lips.

  Thanks be to God, he hadn’t left yet,

  A lone lantern hung on a peg, lighting the tidy barn. Grandpapa would have a tantrum if he knew. Wanton waste and all that. But Davy had likely thought, and rightly so, a duke worthy of a bit of light.

  Of the stable hand, there was no sign. That was also a welcome blessing.

  He’d probably fallen asleep in his quarters already. Up before dawn every day, he worked hard—too hard—and usually sought his bed after sundown. As the Breckensoles never had guests in the evening, Davy had probably assumed it quite gracious to provide a light before he found his mattress.

  Tomorrow, Gabriella would speak to him about the danger of leaving a lantern unattended and about expectations for attending guests’ horseflesh. The duke shouldn’t have to see to saddling his mount. However, she wouldn’t scold too severely since the young man’s absence provided her with the perfect opportunity to speak with Maxwell alone.

  She hadn’t any idea what she would say. There’d been no time to rehearse. And yet here she stood, unwilling for them to part with so much unsaid between them.

  The horse lifted his head again, his great brown eyes watching her.

  She greeted the other two horses before making her way to his stall. “Hello, handsome boy. I never did thank you for the ride the other night. It was most gentlemanly of you to accommodate two riders.”

  At the mention of that sensual ride, any remaining denial ebbed, and her true feelings flooded upon her like a massive ocean wave. Overwhelming, powerful, and wholly inescapable.

  Maxwell had been absolutely right.

  Attraction had sparked between them from the onset. The magnetism had steadily grown into something more over these past months, strengthened upon every encounter, and had culminated this last week. Had all of her attempts to ignore and slight him at every turn been more of an internal battle to fight her escalating fascination? Because, though her head said she should detest him for what she’d discovered, her heart had a mind of its own and frankly refused to cooperate.

  Running a hand over Balor’s neck, she murmured, “How can I tell Maxwell any of that? Hmm?”

  “Tell me what?”

  A hand to her throat, she whirled to face the entrance. “You startled me, Maxwell.” It came out a strangled squeak, and she cursed inwardly for stating the obvious and for sounding like an oversized mouse.

  Marked uncertainty shadowing his features, he lingered a foot inside the door. He’d donned neither his hat nor gloves, but held them in his left hand.

  She permitted herself a leisurely perusal of this ebony-haired powerful lion of a man, from impressively wide shoulders, to a narrow waist, long well-muscled thighs, and calves ensconced in midnight Hessians. Her gaze made the return journey, every bit as enjoyable as the first, until her attention rested upon the molded planes of his dear face.

  Perhaps, she also permitted her focus to hover on his lips as she recalled the kisses they’d shared. If she closed her eyes, she imagined she could feel his lips upon hers still.

  Gabriella’s heart gave a queer flutter. She loved him.

  Had loved him since…Well, she didn’t know exactly when he’d entered her heart and set up house without so much as a by-your-leave. But he had entrenched himself there. Had taken over, and now Maxwell, the eighth Duke of Pennington, had absolute rule of the organ.

  What’s more, she didn’t mind at all, and she wouldn’t object in the least if he felt the same. But did a lady just come out with it? Ask a gentleman if he loved her too? If that was the reason he’d changed his mind about seizing Hartfordshire Court before learning of his grandmother’s letter?

  But what if he didn’t love her? What if his only interests were Hartfordshire and lust for her body? Straightening her shoulders, she brought her chin up. She’d know the truth, at least. That was something. Everything.

  A hint of vulnerability creased the corners of his eyes. “You shouldn’t be out here, Gabriella.”

  Not chérie or minx or vixen?

  She almost bit her lip and had actually lifted her right toe before she caught herself.

  He shook his head and took a pace forward. “It’s not—”

  “Done?” she shrugged, and forming he
r mouth into a disinterested moue, brushed her hand down Balor’s neck. “I know. But, you see, Maxwell, I wanted to speak with you before you left. I feared that after you departed for London on the morrow, it might be some time before you returned. If, you returned at all.” Nothing too terribly subtle about that. Would he understand the meaning in her words she wanted him to?

  “And that distresses you?” After setting his possessions on a low stool, he prowled nearer.

  Swallowing, she managed a small nod. “Yes, I find that it does. Very much, in fact.”

  He was upon her now, and she pulled her gaze upward from his waistcoat, past his starched neckcloth and the ruby pin twinkling there, over the light stubble shadowing his strong chin, to his firm mouth then higher still until she met his gaze.

  The intensity of those hot eyes sent a sensual shiver jolting to her knees, which had inconveniently decided to take this moment to become the consistency of strawberry flummery.

  “Why, may I ask?” His regard sank to her mouth.

  Was he also remembering their passionate embraces?

  “I find the idea of you leaving for a lengthy stretch quite distresses me.” Good Lord, could she sound anymore prim or tight-laced?

  He brushed her cheek with his finger, then her jaw, then the seam of her lips. “Why?”

  She tingled all over, and he appeared as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Blast the man. He wasn’t making this easy.

  Shouldn’t a gentleman, a duke for goodness sake, do the gallant thing and declare himself first? But what if he believed the gentlemanly thing was to let her make the choice, because before, he hadn’t given her an option?

  Gabriella grasped his lapels, running her fingertips along the fine fabric. “I shall miss you beyond measure. Quite unbearably, truth to tell. And I don’t wish to be miserable every day, wondering when you will return. If you will return.” He started to open his mouth, but she quickly put a finger to his lips. “Don’t you dare ask me why again,” she ordered, low and husky.

  At that, he cocked an eyebrow, maddeningly wicked and self-assured, and had the gall to nip her finger before capturing it in his palm and whispering, “Why?” his voice deep and gravelly and seductive.

  Standing on her toes, she cupped his nape. “Because, you obnoxious, irritating man, I love you.”

  The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.

  What an appropriate time to remember a line from Shakespeare.

  With a rough groan, Maxwell swept her into his arms, capturing her mouth in a scorching kiss that promptly sent every coherent thought in her brain straight out of her mind. He gripped her bottom, pushing his rigid length into her belly, and devoured her mouth.

  Time stood perfectly still as they explored the other’s mouth between whispers of adoration and heartfelt apologies. A hunger and yearning swirled within her, increasing in intensity, until she made little mewling sounds against his lips.

  “Maxwell, please,” she pleaded, for what she didn’t know.

  A horse snorted in what very much sounded like an equestrian chuckle, and Maxwell finally lifted his head.

  She cried out in protest, trying to claim his lips once more.

  His features strained and eyes hooded, he shook his head. He rested his forehead against hers. “No, mon amour. I’m almost beyond restraint, and I refuse to tup the future Duchess of Pennington in a pile of straw.”

  She didn’t think the idea so very awful. In fact… “Perhaps not the first time, but mayhap some time?” she asked coyly.

  He growled low in his throat and nipped her neck. “Vixen. Siren. Temptress. Minx.” Smoothing errant strands of hair from her cheek, his gaze so tender, she wanted to weep, he asked hesitantly, “Do you truly love me?” Awe, wonder, and disbelief blended together to make the question harsh and raspy.

  “I do, Maxwell.” She put a palm to his cheek. “I truly do. I’ve loved you for so long, but I was so hurt and angry, I refused to see it. Stubbornly refused to acknowledge what I knew to be true.”

  Something wondrous lit in his eyes, and he pressed a reverent kiss to her forehead then encircled her with his arms.

  “And you’ll marry me? Because you want to?” He spoke against her hair, his lips a warm caress. “I cannot imagine ever loving another woman as I do you. And if you should refuse me, I’ll understand. I shall, truly, because I doubt your grandparents will ever agree to the match. They might even cut you off and forbid you to see me.” His embraced tightened. “But I shall never wed, then. I’ll carry you in my heart until I draw my last breath, Gabriella, my love.”

  “I’ll gladly marry you.” She smiled up into his face, caressing his bristly jaw. “Without regret, whether or not my grandparents’ consent. Although, I suspect they’ll be amendable as long as they know I wed you of my own free will. I love you, dear man.”

  Emotion choked his ragged voice, and he swallowed audibly, pressing his cheek into her hair. “No one… No one has ever said they loved me before.”

  A broken cry escaped her, and tears leaked from her eyes. “Oh, my darling. I shall tell you every day upon awakening, every night upon going to sleep in your arms, and a thousand times in between. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  He tilted her chin upward until their eyes met. “Forgive me, Gabriella. I was an utter fool. The things your grandfather revealed to me tonight…” He closed his eyes. “Well, let’s just say I’m profoundly glad the sixth Duke of Pennington’s blood does not flow through my veins.”

  “I regret you had to learn that ugliness,” she whispered.

  “I’m not,” he said quite fiercely. “It’s a relief. I’ve often thought my father and I were somehow different than the previous dukes. Now I know why.”

  “It’s all so sad, really.”

  “How long must I wait to make you my wife?” Maxwell smiled into her eyes, and she wanted to weep from joy. To shout her jubilation. To take him to her bed right then and there.

  Head angled, she tipped her mouth upward. “I believe you mentioned a special license?”

  “I did, indeed, chérie.”

  “Then I choose tomorrow, by the river where you first kissed me.” She clasped his hand, bringing to her heart. “Shall we tell the others our good news?”

  “I’ll need a fortifying kiss before I interrupt your grandfather’s dinner,” Maxwell claimed, mischief and desire playing across his mouth. “The man fairly terrifies me.”

  Gabriella was happy to oblige for several long and most delicious minutes.

  London, England

  Late April, 1810

  Lilting music filled his ears as Max guided his wife of just over a month around the sanded parquet floor of Mathias, Duke of Westfall’s ballroom. Invitations had awaited them upon their arrival in London, and a steady stream continued to pour into the Mayfair manor every day. News of his nuptials had traveled throughout London’s elite circles with prodigious speed.

  Upon his first foray to Bon Chance, after being heartily congratulated, the dukes of Asherford, Westfall, Bainbridge, and San Sebastian had taken him aside for a finger’s worth of brandy. Unwed themselves, each had teased him unmercifully about having been snared by the parson’s mousetrap.

  “Yes, and now that I’m off the Marriage Mart, my friends, there’s one less peer for those title-hungry huntresses’ to snare. You’d best be on your guard, lest you find yourselves saying, ‘I do.’”

  They’d cursed him for the worst sort of friend for even suggesting such a wretched thing. But like Max, each knew full well he was expected to marry and produce an heir, no matter how reluctant they were to enter the blissful state of matrimony.

  A primal smile bent Max’s mouth. Those gents could mock all they wanted, but he had no complaints whatsoever. His wonderful, unpredictable Gabriella was every bit as capricious inside as outside the bedchamber. That promised tumble in the hay had proven quite invigorating. As had the delightful joining in the library yesterday and the exhilarat
ing tussle in the carriage the day before. Each and every one initiated by his seductress of a wife.

  Yes, indeed, God had smiled upon him the day he’d met this enticing armful he now called wife. “Enjoying yourself, Duchess?” He adored calling her that and seeing the pink bloom in her cheeks.

  “You well know I am.” She discreetly craned her elegant neck. “So are Ophelia and Jessica Brentwood.” She slid her eyes sideways, and he followed her glance.

  Ophelia danced with a dashing ship’s captain, and the Duke of Kincade, only arrived from the Highlands last week, skillfully swept Jessica amongst the other dancers.

  “And Rayne Wellbrook and Sophronie Slater too.” Gabriella tipped her head toward the young women. “Though, honestly, they look slightly more terrified than excited.”

  “The Season can be a bit daunting for those unaccustomed to it.” He would’ve eschewed most of the invitations they’d received, but as Gabriella had never had a Come Out or a Season, he felt compelled to allow her to attend whatever routs, soirees, balls, and other assemblies she desired.

  The set ended, and she excused herself to use the lady’s retiring room. Halfway across the floor, Nicolette Twistleton, Miss Ophelia, and Everleigh, Duchess of Sheffield joined her. Their gay laughter rang out as they made for the ballroom’s exit.

  “You look exceptionally pleased with yourself. Not at all like the sour-faced chap at the Twistleton’s musical a few weeks ago.”

  He tore his gaze from his wife long enough to nod a greeting at Bainbridge. “I’m happier than I deserve.”

  Unusually reflective, Bainbridge leaned against the column conveniently situated between them. “I wonder if I’ll be as fortunate as you, Dandridge, Sutcliffe, and Sheffield. Somehow, I think not. Particularly since you were privileged to pick your duchesses, and mine was chosen for me many years ago. And as my dear mama reminds me on a daily basis, Lady Lilith Brighton is now eight-and-ten. Everyone expects me to set a wedding date.”

  Sutcliffe approached, champagne in hand. “What’s this? Bainbridge, are you contemplating marriage as well?”