Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  Speaking was becoming difficult, her words hard to form and thick upon her swollen tongue.

  Was this the vapors?

  But she’d never swooned in her life.

  What had triggered an episode now?

  “Permit me to assist you to the divan.” All solicitousness and concern, Miss Brighton snaked an arm about Jessica’s waist. “It’s just here. A few more steps. Be careful.”

  Jessica forced her leaden legs to shuffle forward as Miss Brighton unerringly guided her to the seat.

  “Here we are. You may sit now. Slowly.” She gently urged Jessica down, her voice seemingly reaching through a long tunnel. “Sit back. There you are.”

  Releasing a grateful sigh, Jessica sank onto the welcoming cushions and promptly shut her eyes. The mad swirling didn’t stop. In fact, the frenzy spiraling increased. Spinning and whirling, a muddled tornado of confusion and light-headedness.

  “Shall I go for help?” The divan dipped as Miss Brighton sat beside her and took her hand. “Miss Brentwood? Can you hear me?”

  It was simply too much effort to answer. Too dashed difficult to open her eyes. Her head spun round and round and round. Sounds and sensations faded and receded. Diminished, waning farther and farther away. She floated, spiraling into vast darkness.

  What is happening?

  That was her last coherent thought before blackness claimed her.

  Crispin tossed back his last swallow of champagne and returned the nod Mathias, Duke of Westfall, sent him from farther along this side of the ballroom. Earlier, they’d discussed horseflesh—a stud Westfall wanted, to be precise. Depositing the empty flute on the tray a passing black-and-crimson-liveried footman carried, he casually surveyed the milling crowd, seeking Jessica Brentwood.

  He’d dared to claim a waltz with her, although his common sense rebuffed him for the foolish impulse. Sutcliffe had asked him to dance with his sister-in-law, and Crispin was only too willing to honor his friend’s request. Never mind that notion had been at the forefront of his mind since he’d ascended the steps to the house.

  Laughing, Nicolette Twistleton and Ophelia Breckensole, along with Rayne Wellbrook and Justina Farthington, hurried from the ballroom. Ladies never seemed to be able to seek the retiring room unless they did so en masse.

  It made him grateful to have been born a male.

  Across the way, near an elaborate column, the Dukes of Pennington, Kincade, and Asherford engaged in earnest conversation. Victor, the Duke of Sutcliffe, danced with his duchess, as did the Dukes of Dandridge and Sheffield. Each was nauseatingly content in their wedded state, and he couldn’t help but envy them.

  If compelled down the marital path forced upon him at present, Crispin would leave his duchess at his remotest estate while taking himself off to India. Or China. Or the Americas, regularly. He and Lilith Brighton were as compatible as oil and water, and he’d be damned if he’d impose his presence on her or hers upon him.

  Even his closest friends didn’t know of his less-than-gallant intentions. He rather suspected they’d point out how unbecoming cowardice was, as well as abandoning one’s spouse. Except, he wouldn’t precisely be abandoning Lilith. She’d want for nothing, and he would have to return to England annually, at the minimum, to inspect his properties.

  Chagrin chafed him, and he glared at the chalked floor. It wasn’t her fault that he felt nothing for her and never would. His heart was too full of another.

  Earlier in the day, he’d learned the Sutcliffe household was to attend the Westfalls’ ball this evening, and he’d immediately altered his plans so he might see Jessica. It wasn’t the first time he’d done so, which made him a complete assling. But as long as no one else suspected his tendre, he’d continue to do so.

  Miss Jessica Brentwood was an enchantress and had consumed his musings for months. He’d secretly admired her from afar for as long. Nonetheless, he’d been diligent not to make overtures or give anyone cause for gossip or speculation.

  After all, he was betrothed.

  Not, by God, of his own free will.

  And that frustration chafed raw and sharp. Gnawed at his peace and kept his mind in a constant turmoil. He did not desire the union with Lilith Brighton. Never had. Never would. How was he to escape the cursed match?

  No, the real difficulty was dissolving the contract without ruining lives.

  What about my life?

  Somehow, he must make it so. He’d oppose the forced marriage until he’d exhausted every avenue.

  The settlement had been drawn up when he was but a lad of twelve. At the time, he’d had no idea what his father had rushed him into signing. He’d wanted the deed done so he might return to the stables and to his best friend—a sweet-natured gelding named Ross.

  His father had ordered him to put his name to the official-looking document, and so he had. One did not argue with the intimidating, formidable previous Duke of Bainbridge. Most especially not skinny, pimply-faced heirs whose fathers only deigned to criticize and find fault with everything they did.

  Since coming into his title seven years ago, at the age of twenty, Crispin had consulted his solicitor in multiple instances regarding the intricacies of flouting the agreement. Unfortunately, the consequences would be most unpleasant, particularly if both parties were not amenable to the dissolution. The drafters of the contract had been cunning and wily. Damn their eyes.

  It wasn’t their lives being manipulated.

  Personally, he didn’t mind scandals too terribly much—if a scandal meant avoiding a union he deplored. Decades with a woman not of his choosing was, in essence, a lifetime prison sentence for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  Crispin glanced around the milling crowd, wishing he dared take a hefty swallow from the flask in his pocket. Ruminations of his impending marriage always made him want to get foxed.

  Several years ago, she’d married a widower with two grown sons and after the death of her husband, lived contentedly as the Dowager Baroness Waverly. Nevertheless, destroying Albertina’s and Lettice’s prospects wouldn’t make him a hero in her—or his cossetted and indulged sisters’—eyes.

  Right now, he didn’t much care what they thought of him, truth be told.

  While their dowries were sufficient to attract numerous suitors, they had, regrettably, taken after Waverly in form, intelligence, and disposition. Though he loved his sisters and wished them the best, given they were turnip-shaped, scatter-brained, and given to fits of temper and histrionics, neither would readily find herself a husband.

  Perhaps they’d mature, adopt more biddable temperaments, before their Come Outs. At fourteen and fifteen, that wasn’t entirely impossible. And neither was Prinny losing two stone and putting aside his mistresses. Just improbable as hell.

  An eruption of high-pitched giggles behind him dragged him back to the present.

  Crispin scrutinized the guests again before returning to the matter plaguing him. The ever-present burr in his bum, which permitted him no relaxation.

  When the betrothal contract had been drafted fifteen years ago, the duchy was nearly destitute. Since he’d come into the title, he’d made several lucrative investments, and now the dukedom sailed along quite smoothly. He couldn’t afford to be unwise, but if he stayed the course, his heir wouldn’t bear the same financial trials that had burdened him upon inheriting the dukedom.

  Money wasn’t the only issue, however. Years before, Crispin had repaid the funds advanced to the duchy. Well, he’d had his solicitor deposit the funds in Hammon Brighton’s account.

  What was trickier to negotiate was the property Father had acquired in the agreement. Property upon which sat the house he had commissioned and which Mother and his sisters now resided.

  Not only was it forfeit if Crispin broke the agreement, but Brighton was also guaranteed two other unentailed estates, including Pickford Hill Park, where Crispin conducted his horse-breeding ventures. The reverse was true if Lilith Brighton, his intended, refused the match. All t
he properties remained Crispin’s holdings.

  By damn, Brighton would not put his grubby paws on Pickford Hill Park.

  However, Crispin still hadn’t contrived a suitable solution to the betrothal.

  Lilith had recently celebrated her eighteenth birthday. The agreed-upon age when he and she would exchange vows. Since that auspicious day had come and gone, his mother and Lilith’s father nagged worse than fishwives for Crispin to set a wedding date. Soon. Before Season’s end, by God. He could feel the noose tightening more and more with each passing day.

  “Ballocks,” he swore beneath his breath.

  He didn’t fool himself that his mother’s concern was for him. She’d never been an affectionate woman. Her union with Father had been arranged, and there’d been no love between them. She fretted that his pampered sisters would have to leave their preferred home. And Albertina and Lettice always demanded and usually had their way.

  Which, until now, had suited him fine. As long as they didn’t take up residence at Pickford Hill Park, he didn’t give a dozen damns where they lived. Pray God, he wouldn’t be required to assist with their Come Outs.

  A shudder rippled across his shoulders at the horrifying notion. God save him from such cruel punishment.

  Bored, Crispin took in the revelers again.

  Where the blazes was Miss Brentwood?

  His affianced was also in attendance tonight. Strangely, the moment she’d spied him, she’d flown from the ballroom, apparently no more thrilled to see him than he’d been to see her. He felt neither offended nor pleased at the knowledge. In truth, Lilith Brighton stirred no emotion, or anything else, in him. His intended was little more than a cossetted child.

  Crispin hadn’t bothered to determine if she’d returned to the ballroom yet.

  He had no intention of asking her to dance. He didn’t want to encourage Lilith. Young women too easily fell in and out of infatuation. Far better for all if she remained leery of him as he pondered a means of dissolving their marriage contract.

  Sighing, he scrubbed a hand over his chin. Physical fatigue didn’t cause his weariness, but rather mental exhaustion. If only there were an honorable way to put an end to their betrothment. Mayhap he could persuade Lilith to terminate it or, together, come to an amicable settlement for dissolution.

  Not bloody likely.

  Weren’t all marriage-minded misses eager to become a duchess? Shallow ones such as Lilith most assuredly were. Except her behavior tonight said otherwise.

  It mattered naught. Her social-climbing father, Hammon Brighton, would never consent. He’d purchased their daughter a title, and now Crispin and Miss Lilith Brighton must somehow forge a future together that neither had chosen.

  He’d spoken to her father, and the blackguard had made it most clear; his daughter would become a duchess. More specifically, the Duchess of Bainbridge. Or there would be hell to pay.

  Nevertheless, Crispin wasn’t leg-shackled yet, and he’d damn well enjoy his dance with Jessica Brentwood.

  “Bainbridge?” Ronald, Viscount Brookmoore, approached, yanking him once more from his unpleasant musings. His aristocratic features tense, Brookmoore glanced around before lowering his voice. “Might I impose upon you to assist me with my brother? Inconspicuously?”

  A sot and a rakehell of the worst order, Randolph Radcliff was notorious for becoming embroiled in one disgraceful conundrum after another.

  Crispin cocked an eyebrow. “What’s he up to now?”

  “He’s foxed to his gills.” Brookmoore made a sound of disgust. “Drank nearly a half bottle of Scotch before we left home, and God only knows how much he’s consumed since.”

  And Brookmoore asked him to help? Why not one of his usual cronies?

  The viscount must’ve anticipated the question. “I require a man of some…ah…discretion to assist in bundling my brother into our carriage. It’s parked outside the alley, by the garden. For my family’s sake, I’d rather not ask the footmen to help. You know how servants gossip.” He gave a rueful twist of his lips and shook his head. “Mother hasn’t recovered entirely from the last debacle.”

  Was that the one where Radcliffe had been caught with the maid in the linen closet, her skirts over her head? Or the episode with the new-to-London widow whose very-much-alive husband had returned home at the most inopportune moment? Egads. Radcliffe made him grateful he only had stout sisters with difficult temperaments to deal with.

  “I’d be most appreciative,” Brookmoore murmured, brushing a hand over his weak chin while surreptitiously examining the company. “You don’t gossip as many do, and I know I can rely upon your circumspection.”

  With a sharp nod, Crispin angled toward the doors leading onto the terrace. As the Duke of Westfall was a good friend, he was well-acquainted with the grounds. A gate exited directly to the mew’s alley from the garden. Quite convenient for furtively removing foxed dandies from the premises.

  Aiding Brookmoore also provided him an opportunity to take a nip from the flask in his pocket. He required something stiffer than lukewarm champagne or weak punch suitable for tipsy tabbies. His discussion earlier in the evening with the blissfully happy, newlywed Pennington hadn’t improved his sour mood either.

  Four of his closest friends—Dandridge, Sutcliffe, Sheffield, and now Pennington—had managed to marry for love. They’d found women that complimented them and made them into better men. No wonder he felt disgruntled at the woman foisted upon him.

  Miss Brighton was attractive enough, he supposed. Quite pretty actually, if a man preferred empty-headed, dark-haired, brown-eyed fashionable dolls. However, the few occasions they’d spoken—when he’d been trapped with no ready escape—she’d babbled inanely about lace and buttons and rose water. Kittens. Tea. Oh, and Lady Wimpleton’s divine tea cakes.

  There’d also been envious tripe about somebody’s betrothal. Even a gloating whisper regarding the scandalous crimson gown somebody-or-other had worn to…something.

  A ball? Rout? Theater? Funeral?

  By that time, Crispin had so detached himself from the conversation, preferring to have his eyes gouged out with a salt spoon rather than attend to her nattering, he wouldn’t have recalled if she’d declared Almack’s patronesses had paraded through Hyde Park, wearing nothing but peacock feathers in their hair and bells on their toes.

  “I’m afraid my brother has become the bane of our dear mother’s existence,” Brookmoore was mumbling when Crispin stopped his ruminations and, once more, focused on the viscount.

  “You really ought to do something about his drinking, Brookmoore. Cut off his allowance, if you must. Have him banned from his clubs.” Disgust riddled him. When deep in his cups, Radcliff became boisterous and obnoxious. No woman was safe from his groping hands. “If he keeps on this dubious track, he’ll have a pickled liver by the time he’s thirty.”

  A hand on his pocket, prepared to withdraw his flask, Crispin paused. He’d be obligated to offer Brookmoore a swig. Best wait until he’d seen the viscount and his errant brother on their way.

  Heaving a gusty sigh, Brookmoore fell into step beside him. “You’re right, of course. I’m considering sending him to the Continent. At least, there, his antics wouldn’t constantly embarrass the family.”

  Crispin gave a noncommittal grunt. That might be worse. Brookmoore would have no control over his brother, and God only knew what the pup would embroil himself in. Besides, Brookmoore’s behavior wasn’t exactly above reproach.

  In truth, Crispin had only agreed to aid him to prevent anything untoward happening at Westfalls’ ball.

  A minute later, they trotted down the terrace steps, their heels softly clacking on the stones. Sure enough, the polished ebony top of a coach glinted above the garden wall directly beside the gate.

  Several other guests’ equipages also lined the alley.

  Raising his face to inhale the reviving air, he eyed the cloud-scattered, inky sky. Moonbeams sliced through branches laden with plump buds. Spri
ng hovered, ready to burst forth in a week or two. “Let’s be about it, then. I have a waltz I don’t wish to miss.”

  Slicing him a wolfish glance, Brookmoore scratched his temple. “A little dallying before committing yourself to the parson’s mousetrap, eh? I take it you don’t intend to keep yourself only to your Miss Brighton, despite her sizable dowry? A veritable fortune, I hear. If I were you, I’d not want to anger her dear papa. He might tighten the purse strings.”

  Was that a note of criticism in his voice? Him? A known rakehell? Talk about the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.

  Brookmoore made Prinny look like a monk. How many mistresses had he gone through this past year alone? Seven? Eight? The poor woman who found herself Viscountess Brookmoore had better have a physician examine her for the clap. Monthly.

  Brookmoore wasn’t at all particular in the feminine company he kept.

  Tightening his jaw to quash his instinctive terse retort, Crispin glanced overhead again. “I’m sure you’re aware the match was arranged when I was a mere lad.” He needn’t explain his personal business, though the underlying details weren’t a secret. “I’m unconvinced it’s the best course for me to continue to pursue.”

  A guarded expression descended onto Brookmoore’s features, appearing almost sinister in the half-light, with the tree branches casting weird shadows over them. “But how do you intend to avoid…?”

  Fishing, was he?

  “That, I don’t know, as of yet.” A sardonic chuckle escaped Crispin. “I’d rather there wasn’t a scandal. It would be much better for all, including Miss Brighton. I wish no disgrace or discomfort upon her. She’s a pawn as much as I.”

  Hands linked behind his back, Brookmoore merely grunted.

  They’d reached the conservatory, and he opened the door, permitting Crispin to enter first.

  He stopped short.

  Pale and nervously wringing her hands and biting her lower lip, Miss Brighton stood beside the fountain. Something akin to relief flitted over her face upon spying them.

  Why, in blazes, was she here?

  He fired an accusing glare toward Brookmoore.