Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  A slight grin tipped Crispin’s mouth. Thank God for strong-minded women.

  “I take it, you know the contents of Crispin’s missive?” Jessica’s dubious gaze examined the note.

  “I have a fair notion.” The glitter of Jessica’s ring caught her eye, and she grasped her sister’s hand. “Oh my. It’s simply lovely, dear. Emeralds have always been your favorite. And the color is so unique.” She held Jessica’s hand up to the window’s light. “The stone has a slight bluish tint.”

  “It does, and I adore the square cut.” A soft smile played around Jessica’s mouth. A pretty, sweet, pink mouth which he very much wanted to kiss again.

  The duchess slid him an assessing look.

  Turning the letter over, Crispin broke the seal with his thumb. “I take it whatever is in here is what has caused you to look so glum?”

  With a cautious glance toward the women, Sutcliffe gave a stiff nod. “It’s either excellent or terrible news, depending on your perspective.”

  “As serious as all that?” It must be. Sutcliffe was a virtually, unflappable pillar. The tight lines bracketing his mouth and the taut look about his eyes suggested the letter’s contents were of great import and impact. Brow lifted questioningly, Crispin unfolded the sheet. Angling his back toward the women, he perused the contents. His gut knotted, and a low oath escaped him between tight lips. “Good God!”

  He shot an astounded glance over his shoulder as he refolded the letter then tucked it inside his pocket.

  Sutcliffe responded with another tight nod. “Thea knows. James’s correspondence was similar. He went to assure no one altered the crime scene before the authorities arrived.”

  That explained the duchess’s chalk-white face when she’d entered.

  “Do you wish to tell Jessica, or would you prefer her sister or myself do so?” Sutcliffe asked beneath his breath.

  “All that intense whispering is only making me more anxious,” Jessica said starchily. “Since the three of you are aware, might not I also be apprised of whatever it is that has everyone looking so morose?”

  Crispin didn’t miss the hint of trepidation in her tone. He crossed to her and, after taking her hands in his, urged her to sit beside her sister. “We’ve just had word that Brookmoore was found murdered. Shot in the heart.”

  She blanched, her confused gaze racing from person to person. “Brighton?”

  He shook his head. “No. Lilith killed him. She’s…” He glanced to the duchess.

  “She’s taken leave of her senses, poor girl.” Her grace patted her sister’s knee. “It was all too much for her. When he discarded her, and her father still insisted she wed Bainbridge, she must’ve decided to seek Brookmoore out. Who knows what transpired between them, but the fact that she went with a loaded pistol suggests her intent.”

  Brookmoore deserved to be shot after seducing, impregnating, and abandoning the girl.

  “What will happen to her?” Though Jessica had every right to be furious with Lilith, only compassion colored her words. She bit her lower lip. “Her poor parents. Especially her mother.”

  Crispin could sympathize with Mrs. Brighton. Her overbearing husband had bullied her for as long as he could recall. To have her only child commit another crime, this one a hanging offense, the woman would be beside herself.

  He, however, wasn’t as benevolent as Jessica. Brighton was partially responsible for his daughter’s plight. The controlling bugger had manipulated and coerced Lilith her entire life. Perhaps she’d thought she loved Brookmoore, and when he tossed her aside like an old shoe, her mind had snapped.

  “I expect she’ll be committed.” Sutcliffe offered. “Brighton’s pockets are deep enough, and he’ll likely be able to arrange for a private facility.”

  “What of the baby?” Jessica asked.

  “It’s difficult to say.” Her sister looked pensive. “If she carries it to term—and she may not—then I suppose her parents will determine whether they take the child in, foster it out, or put it in an orphanage.”

  “Even though her part in what she did to Crispin and me was unforgivable,” Jessica shook her head, her earrings swaying with the motion, “I cannot help but feel pity for her.”

  “As do we all. Though, I confess I cannot muster anything but contempt for Lilith’s father,” Crispin admitted.

  “I take it we aren’t leaving for Scotland, after all?” Equal parts disappointment and relief shone in Jessica’s eyes.

  No, the need no longer existed. He shook his head. “There’s no reason. There can be no question of Brighton attempting to enforce the betrothal contract now.” He smiled, feeling more at ease than he could ever recall. He was free to marry the woman he loved more than life itself. “It’s up to you whether you want the banns read or if you’d like to marry by special license.”

  Jessica’s gaze dropped to her hand, and she slowly turned the band around her finger. “I’d rather not wait.” Her cheeks pinkened, and when she brought her eyes up to meet his, he knew full well why she didn’t want to delay.

  By damn, neither did Crispin. Too blasted bad Brentwood hadn’t acquired the special license. He’d wed her today, and tonight, he’d introduce her to passion as he showed her and told her in a hundred ways how much he adored her.

  The duchess hugged her sister. “I’m happy for you, Jessica. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that you and Bainbridge care deeply for each other.” She turned that penetrating stare upon Crispin. “Make my sister happy, Your Grace.”

  “Indeed, Bainbridge. You must, for if you do not, then my lady will not be happy, and that is unacceptable.” Sutcliffe extended his hand, and Crispin seized it at once in a firm grip. “Congratulations, my friend.”

  “Thank you.” Crispin drew Jessica to her feet, something which might very well be giddiness cavorting about his middle. “Is three days too long to wait?”

  “No.” She shook her head, her eyes luminous with love. For him.

  Still holding her hand, he turned to Sutcliffe.

  He held his hands up, palm outward. “I know. I know. You wish to be alone with your intended.” Winking, he bent his elbow and held it out for his wife. “I haven’t been married so very long that I’ve forgotten what it was like to be betrothed.”

  Jessica colored prettily as Crispin drew her into his arms before her sister and brother-in-law made the doorway. The door closed with a soft snick, and he buried one hand in her hair and placed the other at the small of her waist, pressing her to him.

  He nipped her ear. “I vow, the next three days are going to be the longest of my life, waiting to make you mine.”

  “Who says we have to wait?” Her voice husky with desire, she peeked at him through her thick lashes.

  God help him resist this siren. Three days. He had the willpower to resist for three days before he made Jessica his in every way.

  “I do, minx.” He tweaked her nose.

  She stood on her toes and entwined her arms about Crispin’s neck. “Well, then I suppose I’ll have to persuade you otherwise.”

  And by God, she almost did.

  Almost.

  Pickford Hill Park

  August 1810

  Jessica laughed as she guided her docile black mare, Midnight, around a boulder between the copse of towering oak trees. These past four months had been the happiest of her life. Months of being the Duchess of Bainbridge. Of being Crispin’s wife.

  At first, she’d been afraid to learn to ride, but as he’d promised she would, she’d taken to the saddle like a duck to water. Pickford Hill Park now boasted eight ducks, four geese, another half dozen hens, two goats, two adorable spaniel puppies—gifts from him—and a very pregnant barn cat.

  No donkey. Yet.

  She fully expected to add more animals to her beloved menagerie, but he never complained. He had laughed, quite jubilantly, when she’d insisted on knitting cardigans for the kid goats. A few fervent kisses had shushed him quite effectively. That had led
to an interesting bout of lovemaking before the hearth in the drawing room.

  What was undoubtedly a dreamy smile curved her mouth. She did rather like that lovemaking business.

  “Let’s rest here in the shade,” Crispin said over his shoulder. The summer’s heat yet remained, and their morning ride had left Jessica a trifle overheated.

  A small, musical stream meandered along the meadow just beyond the tree stand they’d sought sanctuary within. She just might be persuaded to wade in the chilly depths.

  “I’ve had another letter from Thea,” she said as he helped her dismount. He held her against him, permitting her to slide down the length of his sinewy body. When she encountered a familiar swelling, she grinned. She cupped his groin, earning a low growl and a smothered oath. “My, what do we have here?”

  “I suppose she’s asking us to visit Ridgefield Court again?” He’d buried his face in her neck, muffling his voice. He nuzzled the sensitive spot at the juncture of her throat and shoulder, and it was her turn to moan.

  “Yes,” she agreed, a trifle distracted when the lump against her hand began to swell. They’d only seen baby Amber twice since her birth. “Nicolette is back from her honeymoon and has promised to spend a week at Ridgewood.” Jessica stood on her toes and kissed Crispin’s jaw, relishing the faint brush of his clean-shaven skin against her lips.

  “I seriously doubted Nicolette would ever marry. And to Westfall, no less.” He snorted and shook his head as he tethered the mounts to low-lying branches.

  “I know,” she laughed and patted Midnight’s shiny withers. She’d come to adore the beautiful mare. “And I can scarce believe Rayne and Ophelia have wed, too.”

  “At this rate, all of my friends will be married within a year,” he muttered, not nearly as disgruntled as he pretended. Married life agreed with him.

  And with her.

  She met her husband’s hungry gaze and gave him a seductive smile. “We’ve not made love outdoors yet.”

  His eyebrows dipped low as he slowly scanned the area, his intense gaze coming to rest on the boulder she’d skirted earlier. “Are you suggesting I’ve been remiss in my husbandly duties, Duchess?”

  She giggled then licked her lips. Crispin had always been able to turn her bones to jelly with one look from his quicksilver eyes. “Perhaps just a trifle negligent.”

  “Then, I must remedy the oversight at once.” He stalked toward her, his strapping legs eating up the distance between them, and she retreated, enjoying the chase as much as being captured.

  She continued retreating, until she bumped into the dratted boulder, coming up short.

  “Oh.”

  It wasn’t large enough to pass for a bed. Scanning the area, she spied a grassy spot, still relatively secluded by the trees.

  Crispin was upon her now, passion already sharpening the angles of his dear face. “Turn around, lady wife.”

  “I thought…what?” Turn around? Whatever for?

  Oh. She complied and wiggled her hips when she felt his hands settle on either side of them. Of a sudden, she was shy, worried they’d be seen. “Crispin, are you sure this is private enough?”

  “Quite sure.” Air caressed Jessica’s legs and then her bum as he raised her riding habit. “Trust me, darling. Spread your legs.”

  “Always, my love,” she murmured as she complied.

  “Let me make up for my negligence, sweetheart,” he breathed into her ear.

  “If you insist.” She sighed breathlessly as he slid into her.

  And he did. Most satisfactorily.

  Colchester, England

  September 1802

  Standing in the apple orchard, a short walking distance from the village of Colchester and All Saint’s Priory—his father’s parish—James Brentwood gazed overhead. Ribbons of sunlight threaded through the thick, verdant foliage heavily laden with crisp, crimson fruit.

  Closing his eyes, he inhaled the familiar scents from his childhood: rich, warm earth, ripe apples, freshly cut hay, and an occasional whiff of honeysuckle drifting by on the capricious fall breeze.

  Nearby, industrious bees hummed as they went about their work, and songbirds trilled while flitting from branch to branch. In the distance, his sister’s chickens cackled, and a horse neighed in the adjacent pasture. He missed the peace and freshness of the English countryside when in London.

  Before letting his mind wander once more, he cast a puzzled glance down the dusty, rutted lane. Regine was several minutes late. Unusual for her. Typically, she was as eager for their clandestine meetings as he, and she often beat him to their rendezvous.

  Regine. Just thinking of his beloved tightened James’s chest as overwhelming emotion tunneled through his veins. God, how he loved her. Since she’d been a toddler and he a young lad, he’d adored the raven-haired beauty with eyes so blue, they put the summer sky to shame.

  If not for her father’s recent and unexpected death, he would’ve asked for her hand in marriage this visit even though two years of his solicitor’s training remained. He’d have to bide his time a jot longer, blast it all.

  Scratching his temple, he grinned with unchecked happiness. Regine had agreed to become his wife over a year ago. They kept the agreement a secret but often spoke of their future residing together in London—him a successful solicitor and she, the mother of his four—no five—children.

  Neither aspired to wealth or position nor coveted possessions. Each only needed the other, and they would be happy and content for the rest of their lives. Or so they’d vowed between passionate kisses and promises of eternal love.

  Tomorrow, he’d return to London, but he’d savor these last few hours with Regine before bidding her farewell—after tasting her sweet mouth and breathing in her apple and spices fragrance one final time. Finances wouldn’t permit him to return for at least a fortnight, and he craved memories to savor until her lush form was wrapped in his embrace once more.

  At last, he heard muffled footsteps approaching, and he turned, excitement and expectation vying for supremacy. At eighteen, Regine Edenshaw was a vision, even in her somber, black gown. Her unbound silky, ebony hair swayed as she walked, her eyes downcast and neck bent as if deep in thought.

  She was his. His. Or would be as soon as her mourning period ended. James would have to harness his impatience for a few more months before asking Mrs. Edenshaw for her daughter’s hand. Pray God Regine’s mother wouldn’t require them to wait an entire year to wed as mourning protocol dictated.

  Regine stopped a few feet away and reluctantly brought her gaze up to meet his.

  His heart stalled at the intense sorrow and regret pooled in her eyes. Eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

  Her lips parted, but no words came forth.

  “Darling, what is it?” He moved to gather her into his arms, to soothe away whatever had distressed her, but she shook her head and held a palm up to ward him off. Torment ravaged her delicate features.

  Alarm took root, spiraling outward from James’s stomach and sending a chill washing over him. By God, if someone had dared to harm her.

  “Sweetheart?” He brushed a fingertip across her satiny cheek. “What has you so distressed? Tell me.” Somehow, he’d make whatever troubled her right—anything to put a smile on her bowed mouth and erase the sadness shadowing her azure eyes.

  “James…” Shoulders slumping, she clamped her lower lip between her teeth, and her lashes fluttered downward to caress her pale cheeks.

  His trepidation kicked up several notches, and dread engulfed him. The instinct that made him a damn good solicitor fairly shrieked. He wasn’t going to like what she said. Not at all.

  “James,” she murmured again, her voice a mere thread of sound—a soft, spine-tingling entreaty in the now eerily silent orchard. Then she opened her mouth, gulped in a deep breath, and thrust her chin upward as if bracing herself.

  Against what, for God’s sake?

  He swept the area with a swift, apprehensive glance, before set
tling his attention uneasily upon her once more. Something akin to terror knotted in his throat at the defeat and devastation he detected in her startlingly blue eyes. It stripped the air from his lungs and squeezed his heart in a ruthless, unyielding vise.

  “I…” she drew in a ragged breath. “I am to be married,” she finally said in a rush, dropping her focus to her hands, repeatedly wadding her black skirts.

  What? Married? No. No. You’re mine. Mine! My dearest, most precious love.

  “Pardon?” he whispered stupidly, his lips stiff and voice gravelly with disbelief and pain. “Married?” He shook his head. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. But he had. Her tense posture and waxen pallor revealed the truth.

  “To who?” Or was it whom? What the hell did it matter? His thoughts raced, pell-mell, around his befuddled mind, all ability to reason calmly having flown. You cannot marry another. You cannot! You said you’d be my wife.

  “To the Duke of Heartwaite,” she replied, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

  A bloody duke? He fisted his hands until the nails cut deeply into his palms.

  How could he, a poor vicar’s son with scarcely two coins to rub together and in training to become a solicitor, compete with a sodding duke? Moisture blurring his vision, he choked out a single, strangled syllable, “When?”

  “Next week.” Her throat working and her hand trembling, she touched a bent knuckle to the corner of one eye. “I’m so sorry, James.”

  “Why?” He tenderly grasped her slender arms, peering into her anguished eyes awash with tears. “Why, Regine? I love you. You love me, too.” Didn’t she? Yes, else why would she be this miserable? “Please, I beg you, don’t do this to us.”

  Eyes wide and tortured, she silently gazed at him, and the truth slammed into James with the force of an over-loaded grain wagon. A duke could offer her everything he couldn’t: position, power, prestige, and wealth.

  Evidently, love was a trifling insignificance compared to those necessities.