Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  “What’s this? Miss Brighton, why—?” He started forward, but a woman lying prostrate on a divan snared his attention. He blinked once, not believing his eyes. “Miss Brentwood?”

  His brows lashed together in alarm. What the devil? His nape hair stood straight up as alarm bells pealed loudly in his head. Why was Jessica here, incapacitated, and Radcliffe—the bounder—obviously was not?

  Brookmoore had lied. Fabricated the whole bloody story.

  But, God’s teeth, why?

  Something was too deuced smoky by far.

  “Where’s your brother, Brookmoore?” Crispin snapped, shooting the disconcertingly silent man a half accusing, half questioning glance as he strode to Jessica.

  What drivel would he concoct?

  He knelt beside the divan. “Miss Brentwood?” He gave her shoulder a gentle shake, but she didn’t stir. Didn’t so much as twitch. What the hell went on?

  How long had she been in the hothouse? If she didn’t return to the ball soon, she faced inevitable ruination. He raked an accusatory gaze over Miss Brighton, who’d skirted the divan to stand before the door. No, to stand beside Brookmoore.

  She was Crispin’s affianced, yet he felt more concern and regard for the insensate woman on the divan than he did for her. “What’s wrong with her?” he demanded, stonily. His taut gut told him Miss Brighten knew full well what ailed Jessica.

  When she didn’t answer but flicked her anxious gaze to Brookmoore, Crispin firmed his lips together. Did affection soften the worried lines about her mouth?

  Ah, so that was which way the wind blew. Ire replaced his satisfaction with the discovery. Those two fiends were behind this…whatever the bloody nuisance this was.

  By God, he’d get to the bottom, but first, he must ascertain what was wrong with Jessica. His betrothed and Brookmoore had a great deal of explaining to do.

  He touched Jessica’s forehead with the back of his hand, relieved when he detected no fever. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing even and unlabored. She appeared peaceful and deeply asleep. She hadn’t responded to their talk nor when he touched her.

  Drugged. Jessica acted drugged.

  Hell’s bells! He jerked his head up, prepared to give Brookmoore and Miss Brighton a tongue lashing requiring a fortnight’s recovery. “Precisely what—”

  Excruciating pain lanced the base of Crispin’s skull. He toppled forward, collapsing atop Jessica’s bountiful chest.

  A woman gasped, the sound muffled and appalled. “Ronny! You might’ve killed him.”

  His vision grew narrower and narrower until the last vestige of light disappeared.

  Crispin groaned, his skull threatening to crack with the harsh, guttural sound. He touched his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, applying pressure to ease the hammering in his head.

  What the hell had happened?

  He’d recalled bending over Jessica, and then—

  Goddammit. Brookmoore had walloped the back of his head.

  The whole thing had been a calculated ploy. But why?

  Was Jessica part of the scheme, or was she a victim, too?

  He dropped his hand to his naked chest. Naked? Why was he naked?

  Fingers splayed, he waited for his mind to catch up to the undeniable evidence beneath his palm. It took another second for him to comprehend he was completely unclothed. Nude as the day he’d been born.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  And what was more—God dammit!—he wasn’t alone on the divan. His breath hissed out from between his teeth, and every muscle in his torso tensed.

  Could things possibly become any worse?

  A lush feminine body curled into his, a slim thigh thrown across his legs and a slender arm across his bare chest. The tantalizing scents of cloves and vanilla surrounded him as he slowly turned his head, dreading yet knowing, he’d find Jessica Brentwood in his arms. Also deliciously naked as a robin, her honey-blonde hair splayed over her shoulders and back.

  He might’ve been knocked senseless and still struggled to cobble a coherent thought together, but he was aware enough to appreciate the exquisiteness of the form tucked so intimately next to his. Like a contented kitten.

  She made a soft noise and shivered, burrowing deeper into his side, and despite his head threatening to split at the slightest movement, desire sluiced through him. She was even more incredibly beautiful than he’d imagined. And he had imagined her naked—many, many times.

  He supposed that made him a bounder and a reprobate. God rot me. But, despite what others believed, it wasn’t something he did with all women. Just this special, unique creature.

  Jessica’s unbound golden hair fell over her creamy shoulders, and her bountiful breasts pressed enticingly against his chest, her delectably plump buttocks sloping downward to long, lithe legs.

  To anyone coming upon them, it would appear they recovered from a rousing round of satiating love play. Damn his eyes. He would kill Brookmoore—slowly—for looking upon Jessica and touching her.

  He squinted through half-closed lids, the pounding in his head preventing him from opening his eyes wide. When he’d entered the hothouse, a single lamp had burned on the table. Now, however, three more glowed brightly. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make it appear as if he and Jessica had just coupled. To compromise and entrap them.

  Lilith.

  The devious, little bitch.

  Rage such as he’d never known pummeled behind his ribs and boiled his blood. If it weren’t for his cracking headache and the woman nestled beside him, he’d have been up, dressed, and in furious pursuit. No doubt, Lilith and Brookmoore had counted on his being incapacitated for some time. They’d ensured it by bashing him on the head.

  That bastard Brookmoore and his witch of a betrothed would feel the full effect of his wrath. He was typically much better at reading people and cursed himself for being ten times a fool for being so damn gullible.

  Concern for Jessica had dulled his instincts.

  His question as to whether she was as bitterly opposed to the match between them as Crispin, had been answered. Once she’d turned eighteen and knew a wedding date was forthcoming, Lilith had determined to take matters into her own hands.

  Why hadn’t she approached her father? Mayhap she had.

  Brighton wouldn’t have given ten tinkers’ damns about her feelings. He’d already proved that. So, Lilith had used other nefarious means to achieve her end. It seems his betrothed—former betrothed, after this unforgivable stunt—was a cunning, plotting witch.

  As awful as the situation was at present, at least he’d learned the truth about her.

  But why in the hell had Brookmoore schemed to help her? Unless…

  Ah. Of course.

  He wanted Lilith for himself. Wanted her fortune-of-a-marriage-settlement.

  Did they think Crispin wouldn’t bring charges against them? If Brookmoore had gambled he wouldn’t drag him before the House of Lords, he’d gambled wrong. Or had Brookmoore and Lilith truly intended to kill him? Crispin intended to find out, by God.

  He would obliterate him for disrobing Jessica, looking upon her naked form, and touching her. Fury throttled up his throat, and he gritted his teeth. He damn well might challenge Brookmoore to an affair of honor.

  However, despite Jessica being a victim too, she was thoroughly and undeniably compromised. Even if whatever had caused her insensate condition was proven, the facts were the facts.

  They were naked. Together.

  It didn’t matter that nothing had occurred between them. That he was injured, and she was unconscious. Or that he wasn’t in any condition to rouse her, let alone see them both into their clothing.

  Shutting his eyes, he battled the waves of nausea assailing him. He swallowed, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were. Vomiting on Jessica wouldn’t endear him to her.

  Brookmoore may very well have concussed him. Gingerly, Crispin touched the back of his head, unsurprised when his fingertips
came away sticky with blood. The blow that damned wretch dealt him had left a gash in his skull.

  He wiped his fingers on the back of the divan then grimaced at the bloody smears. Westfall’s mother would not be pleased.

  Had Lilith and Brookmoore contrived this debacle to place the blame on Crispin by causing the scandal of the year? He’d wager on it. Had Brookmoore already bedded Lilith?

  Probably.

  Which meant, if Crispin’s hunch proved right—and by God and all of the saints, he was positive it would—someone would burst through the door any moment. And most conveniently find him and Jessica dishabille.

  Perhaps he should feign unconsciousness again to lend credence to the truth that they’d been set up. He skimmed his gaze over her creamy skin, and his instinct to protect her won over. No others would have an opportunity to leer at her when she was defenseless. She’d be utterly humiliated.

  She would be, in any event. There was no help for it.

  “Jessica. Jessica.” Gently but firmly shaking her shoulders, he whispered in her ear, “You must wake up, sweetheart.”

  God help them. She didn’t revive except to sigh and press her lush curves closer, reinforcing his suspicion she’d been drugged.

  How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours?

  God damn Lilith and Brookmoore to the lowest layer of hell. May they burn for eternity.

  How could they involve Jessica? An innocent. She’d done nothing to either of them to warrant this type of hostile treatment.

  She’d be utterly compromised. Destroyed. Shunned through no fault of her own.

  Brookmoore or Lilith had probably heard the ugly tattle about Jessica’s father and decided she was expendable. A woman with a slightly-tainted reputation by association. They’d targeted the weak, and that only made Crispin all the more determined to seek revenge on Jessica’s behalf.

  Murderous fury burgeoned within him, wave after wave of ire so blistering that if Brookmoore had been present, he’d have run him through on the spot.

  Through slitted eyelids, Crispin located their clothing, scattered haphazardly beside the settee. Lilith and Brookmoore had been in an all-fired hurry to disrobe them, the fiends. The garments were tossed about as if he and Jessica had been frantic to couple.

  Her gown was within reach, and stretching out an arm, he managed to seize the fine silk as voices rang outside. With a jerk that threatened to separate his head from his shoulders, he yanked the gown over them, concealing their nudity a fraction before the door flung open and several laughing guests paraded in.

  A chorus of stunned gasps and exclamations echoed throughout the hothouse as they came up short, bumping into one another.

  “I say,” Radcliffe boomed with mock astonishment. “It’s Bainbridge and the Brentwood chit.”

  “Good Lord,” his female companion tittered. “And they’re naked.”

  Jessica groaned and rolled over, pressing a hand to her throbbing head. The last thing she remembered was feeling wretched in the Westfalls’ hothouse. She swallowed, her mouth dry as ash and tasting of soiled linen. And mayhap feathers. No, a dirty feather duster.

  Why had she been in the conservatory, again?

  The details flitted around the periphery of her memory, almost within her grasp then darting away each time she nearly had them in her grip.

  Puppies.

  Yes, she’d gone to see puppies with Lilith Brighton. But she’d become dizzy and fainted. For the first time in her life, and for no apparent reason, she’d swooned. It was all so peculiar.

  Opening her eyes, she peered at the familiar emerald canopy above her.

  Puzzling her brow and crimping her mouth, she rifled through her inadequate recollections of last night. How in heaven’s name had she come to be in her bed and not recall the journey home from the Westfalls’?

  Turning onto her side, her mind still in a thick-as-cold-porridge muddle, she examined the draperies. Bright, golden light filtered between the small crack. Morning, then. She’d been unconscious all night.

  Suspicion niggled. A simple bout of the vapors didn’t cause one to remain incapacitated for hours. Jessica became more confused with each passing moment. What, precisely, had happened last night?

  Struggling to a sitting position, she groaned again at the fierce ache encompassing her skull like an unyielding vise. Once propped against her pillows, she cradled her head in her hands. This aftermath was most definitely something more than a simple swoon.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Faint, almost tentative knocking preceded Theadosia gliding into the bedchamber, followed by a maid with a breakfast tray.

  “You’re awake, at last. I’m so very relieved.” At once, Theadosia sat beside her on the mattress and took Jessica’s hands in hers. “Even though the doctor assured me you—”

  “Doctor?” Jessica cut a bewildered glance at Sally, in the process of setting out breakfast and pouring a cup of tea. The servant’s ears practically flapped as she listened, though her bland expression never changed.

  “That will be all, Sally.” Theadosia rose, and head tilted regally, waited expectantly for the maid to depart.

  Ah, so Theadosia wanted privacy before she filled Jessica in on what had happened last evening. A bit curious, but not alarming.

  Sally bobbed a shallow curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace.” She left the chamber, closing the door with a soft thud behind her, but not before cutting Jessica another curiosity-filled glance.

  Theadosia took her place at the table, fiddling with the tea service. She added milk and a lump of sugar to Jessica’s cup and, after stirring the tea, brought her the fragrant brew.

  India tea was her favorite, and this morning more than usual, she welcomed the soothing beverage. She took a sip, relishing the sweet warmth trickling down her throat. A fortifying cup of tea did much to set the world to rights.

  If Theadosia didn’t look like she was about to cast up her accounts, Jessica wouldn’t be troubled. Her sister was with child, after all, so perhaps her wan expression was due to morning sickness.

  “Are you feeling unwell? I thought your morning malaise had passed.”

  “What?” Her sister stared at her in bafflement before her expression cleared. “Oh, no. Not at all. I feel perfectly well,” she assured her. “That is, I’m not ill in the stomach.”

  “Then why the Friday-face?” Jessica took another sip. She felt much improved already. “And what’s this about a doctor? I but fainted.” That might not be entirely true. Mayhap she had a debilitating ailment, and that’s why Theadosia acted so oddly. “Did Miss Brighton send for help? Well, naturally, she must’ve, else I’d still be in the conservatory.”

  When her sister didn’t respond to her attempt at lightness, Jessica placed her cup upon her night table and canted her head.

  Something was the matter.

  Her chest expanded with a deep breath. Well, if there were something mortally wrong with her, she’d just as soon know. “What, precisely, did the doctor say, Theadosia?”

  Cancer? Consumption? Some other nameless disease?

  Apprehension sang through her veins, but she corralled her cavorting thoughts and presented a false mien of composure. Whatever Theadosia had to say that was so godawful, Jessica would face it courageously.

  Her sister stood beside the bed, her upper teeth resting on her lower lip, her face pinched in consternation. “The doctor examined you last night, after the, ah, incident, and assured me once the sleeping draught wore off, you’d be fine.”

  Crumpling her brows in confusion, Jessica tried to make sense of her sister’s words.

  Sleeping draught? Incident? “I didn’t take a sleeping draught.” She shook her head and immediately regretted doing so when a pang speared her forehead. Lord above. “Why in the world would I need a sleeping draught at a ball? And what incident occurred?”

  “My dear, you didn’t knowingly drink the draught.” Sighing deeply, Theadosia sank onto the mattress. “Did you accept a beverage fr
om anyone?”

  Miss Brighton’s sunny countenance immediately sprang to mind, and she gave a cautious nod. “A glass of lemonade from—”

  “Miss Brighton,” her sister finished, staring past Jessica and gazing blankly out the window on the chamber’s far side. Tension and, perhaps, regret radiated off her, and after a long, resigned sigh, she said, “Yes, I know. Or at least, I suspected that was the case.”

  Then, why had she asked? This conversation was most peculiar.

  “The Duke of Bainbridge suggested as much,” Theadosia admitted, in a strangely distracted tone.

  Now Jessica crinkled her nose. “The Duke of Bainbridge?”

  How was he involved? What in the world had happened after she’d swooned? Had she hit her head? Was that why it ached as ferociously as if a hammer pounded an anvil inside her skull?

  “Theadosia?” She touched her sister’s cold hand. “You’ll have to begin at the beginning, for I am hopelessly lost. What has Bainbridge to do with this? And what makes you think Miss Brighton would dose my lemonade? She was quite kind to me after…”

  Jessica didn’t finish. Theadosia needn’t know about the viperish trio.

  Come to think of it, though, the lemonade had been exceedingly tart. But her thirst had been such that she’d disregarded the flavor. A low gasp escaped past her parted lips. “The lemonade did taste rather peculiar.”

  The uncertainty gripping her rapidly transformed into alarm at the devastation shining in Theadosia’s eyes, at whatever unpleasantness her sister seemed unable to voice. It couldn’t be all that dreadful. Could it?

  Using two fingers, Jessica rubbed slow circles over her temples. Why would Miss Brighton drug her? It made no sense whatsoever.

  “What…?” Dropping her hands to her lap, she swallowed past the lump of trepidation lodged in her throat. “What has happened?” She pressed her sister’s fingers. “Tell me, Thea. I shall have to know eventually.”

  Her sister closed her eyes for a long blink, and when she opened them, moisture glimmered there. “Darling, you and the Duke of Bainbridge have been the unfortunate victims of an atrocious, simply malicious scheme.”