Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  She scrambled for a topic to distract Juliet. “I forgot to ask if you need any more materials for the orphanage’s valentines?”

  When they’d first arrived in London, Juliet’s despondency about the recently diagnosed need for spectacles had her sulking about their house, woebegone, and in a state of the blue devils. Regine had hit upon the notion of her artistic sister creating valentines for those less fortunate as a way to help her understand her circumstances weren’t as doleful as she believed.

  After procuring a list of charities for her to choose from, Juliet had selected the Shephard’s Haven Home. A small but well-run foundling home and orphanage operated by two unconventional spinster sisters and their few, equally unique staff.

  Juliet shook her head, her pink bonnet bobbing. “No. I believe I have plenty. In fact, I’m nearly finish—” She stopped abruptly and tapped her chin, a contemplative expression on her face as she gazed out the window to where James approached; he strode directly toward their conveyance with the swaggering long-legged stride and assurance of a peer.

  “Although…” Juliet slanted a sly glance toward Regine, wrestling to keep her mien completely unaffected.

  Her sister must not suspect her interest. It would only complicate matters.

  “I suppose a bit more lace and red ribbon wouldn’t go amiss,” Juliet admitted.

  As the door swung open, Regine gave a brisk nod. “It’s settled then. When we pick up your gloves tomorrow, we’ll stop at the haberdashery, too. You can purchase any other items you might be short of, as well.”

  “Hmm.” Juliet made a soft, suspicious noise in her throat. “And why is it you didn’t collect my gloves yesterday?” She made a pretense of examining the perfectly acceptable gloves encasing her fingers. Peeking at Regine over the rim of her eyeglasses, a distinct teasing glint shone in her eyes.

  An exasperated groan throttled up Regine’s throat and pressed against the back of her lips. Juliet was too dashed astute by far. “I explained already, dear. I ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen in a great while. You know I was away from England for six years, and Heartwaite’s failing health and the mourning periods for him and Mama kept me from London for another two.”

  She made to scoot from the seat and descend the conveyance. Gracious, her sister was becoming a busybody.

  “Would that friend be James Brentwood?” False innocence laced Juliet’s sing-song voice.

  Pausing at the door, unprepared for Juliet to have mined that morsel so easily, Regine swung her gaze to her sister. She furrowed her brow. “You remember him?”

  Regine hadn’t considered that. Juliet had been seven, and she had assumed she’d long ago forgotten about her oldest sister’s young and attentive beau. She sliced a glance to the object of their discussion, waiting patiently no more than six feet from the carriage.

  Likely eavesdropping on their conversation.

  James’s expression didn’t reveal one way or another whether he’d heard every word.

  Juliet snorted and waved a hand as if most offended. “Of course I do. I was just seven, but I do remember you adored him.” She leaned forward and touched Regine’s shoulder, a maturity glowing behind those new lenses, far beyond her fifteen summers. “I know you only married Heartwaite to assure Mama and we girls were provided for.”

  Heart cramping from renewed pain and no small degree of astonishment, Regine closed her eyes for a blink. Hovering, half-crouched, she was at a loss for words.

  Juliet knew? How? Was I that obvious, after all?

  The question must’ve shown in her eyes, because her sister’s mouth curved into a fragile little smile. “I’m near-sighted, Regine. Not stupid.” Angling another considering glance toward James patiently standing outside, his hands behind his back and his head at a slight slant, a speculative gleam entered Juliet’s eyes.

  Her acute gaze swung to Regine and back to James three times.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  “Wipe that speculative look from your face, Juliet Minerva Francis Edenshaw.” Regine pointed a narrowed-eyed gaze at her sister. She could practically hear the cogs grinding away in her youngest sister’s mind. “There’s nothing between us now. It’s too late.”

  “Uhm hum.” Juliet gave her a gentle shove as she giggled. “Regine, you look like a great, startled bird, hovering there. A purple martin, to be exact.” Another discovery from Juliet’s recently purchased Fascinating Birds of the World Handbook and Field Guide.

  Today, Regine wore purple trimmed in black velvet. Not a demure lavender or heather, but rich, luxurious violet with equally sumptuous ebony velvet. Heartwaite had preferred she wear dulcet shades and pastels. The minute she’d tossed off her mourning weeds, she’d indulged her taste for vibrant hues—emerald, crimson, sapphire. Gold and silver, too.

  Her way of rebelling.

  Against what?

  She wasn’t precisely sure what. The social system that rendered women possessions? That kept them restricted and without rights, and most of them reliant upon men for their every need? Against fate, for forcing her down a path she’d never have chosen?

  The coachman cleared his throat, and Regine directed her focus to the street once more. To the man from her past standing there, as handsome as ever, who would always own her battered heart.

  James had closed the distance and now waited, hand outstretched, to assist her from the vehicle. Once her feet were safely upon the pavement, he reached to help Juliet descend.

  She grinned at him, quite the most animated Regine had seen her since—well, since Mama’s death. “Hello, Mr. Brentwood,” she fairly chirped, dipping a bouncing little curtsy. “You are looking well.”

  She searched past him.

  Whatever did the minx seek?

  “Your wife’s not with you?” Juliet asked.

  Lord. Bold as brass, and without a jot of remorse.

  “Or haven’t you married?” She blinked up at him innocently.

  Groaning inwardly, Regine purposely remained imperious to the crafty glance her sister slid her. The little hellion. They’d have a serious conversation when they arrived home. Nay. On the carriage ride home, and she’d disabuse her littlest sister of any misplaced romantic notions.

  “Alas, I remain a crusty old bachelor.” He chuckled and bent at the waist as if greeting royalty.

  “Crusty? I should say not. Why, you’re even more handsome than I remembered,” Juliet quipped without any apparent regret for her impertinence. “Or, perhaps you’ve always been thus, and I can finally see you now.” She flitted her fingertips near her spectacles.

  Jaw slack, Regine blinked, undecided whether to chastise Juliet for her impudence or cheer that she had taken so to James and could jest light-heartedly about her hated eyeglasses. Where had her reserved, well-mannered sister gone? The one so embarrassed by her spectacles?

  “And you, Miss Edenshaw, look quite fetching in your eyeglasses.” He dipped his chin and murmured in a velvety voice, “Very élégant.”

  Pinkening under his praise, she tentatively touched the left temple two inches before where it looped behind her ear. She stood a little taller and confident. “Thank you.”

  Regine could’ve hugged him for his kindness.

  “Thank you for accepting my invitation. Shall we?” James extended his elbows, and Juliet promptly latched onto his left arm.

  Juliet shot her an, “Ah ha! So that’s the way of it,” glance.

  Casting the proffered arm a dubious look, Regine vacillated. Touching him again would be an enormous mistake. Her palm still tingled from when he’d handed her down from the carriage. But she yearned to feel him beneath her fingertips. To caress that firm, sinewy flesh.

  Her life had been bereft of touch and affection for so long. Oh, Heartwaite had given her an occasional fatherly peck on the cheek, and naturally, she and her sisters had hugged to console each other when their mother died. But she’d missed—no, craved—a virile man’s touch.


  Not any man’s. James’s.

  An acorn-colored eyebrow quirked in challenge at her continued hesitations, and by George! Did his lips tremble? Blast the rotter. He knew how he affected her, though she’d vowed to remain impervious to his disarming smile.

  Setting her jaw, and dredging up the remnants of her resolve, Regine gingerly laid her finger inside the crook of his elbow.

  He bent his neck, placing his mouth near her ear. “I’ve had dog hair cling to me with a firmer grip.”

  What? She blinked like a ninny. Dog hair?

  He chuckled again, the contagious baritone resonating in his chest, and her traitorous lips twitched.

  He’s acting charming for Juliet’s sake. Don’t forget that.

  “Relax,” he said out the side of his mouth as they passed through the entrance, Juliet in her eagerness rushing ahead. “I shan’t bite. Unless…you want me to.” That last emerged a throaty purr.

  Good God.

  She glanced upward, searching his face for the hostility so apparent yesterday. Leeriness yet lingered in his marine eyes but not the frosty rejection he’d first turned on her at the coffeeshop. Regine raised her chin and summoned a smile. She’d enjoy today. For Juliet’s sake.

  “You might not bite, James, but your gaze can unshell a nut with a single, searing look.”

  A shadow fell across his features, and his attention shifted to Juliet, jaw slack, and slowly turning in a circle. “Truce for today?” he murmured for Regine’s ears alone. He lifted his square chin toward her enthralled sister. “For her sake?”

  “I wasn’t aware we were at odds,” Regine quipped, instantly regretting her playfulness when his eyelids slid half-closed, and he swept that hooded, sultry turquoise gaze over her.

  “Make no mistake, Regine, we are.”

  She couldn’t misunderstand the undertone of steel in his voice. Nor the lingering resentment.

  “I’ve not forgotten,” he murmured.

  Her amusement fled, promptly replaced by self-recrimination.

  See? You were greedy instead of wise. Fool!

  Regine had known it was imprudent to accompany James on this outing, but she’d been unable to say no yesterday. Now, he obviously regretted his impulsiveness for asking as much as she did for accepting. If she’d possessed an ounce of wisdom, she’d have turned her back and walked away yesterday. Now, because she’d been weak and feckless, they both suffered from her impulsiveness.

  “Oh.” Dropping her gaze to block his scorn, she wet her lower lip. “Perhaps, it would be best if we didn’t—”

  He took her elbow and drew her aside, all the while making sure Juliet was within view. “I am perfectly capable of acting the gentleman in order for your sister to enjoy herself. I trust you are as well?”

  “Of acting the gentleman?” Good Lord. There she went again. Why did she continue to jest?

  Because, in truth, she wanted to see his beautiful smile. That flash of teeth and the humor dancing in his eyes. Like the James of old. The man who’d looked at her with adoration rather than derision in his beautiful gaze.

  A sound very near a growl escaped him. “Regine,” he warned.

  “Truce. Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “A truce is just the thing.”

  Not possible. But she pasted on a pleasant face for her sister’s sake. There could be no peace between them. Too much wounding, too many misunderstandings, and much too much time had passed.

  His expression dubious, James gave a curt nod and guided her to her sister. “Miss Edenshaw, do you have a preference where we begin?”

  Four days later, cognac in hand, James chatted with his brothers-in-law, Crispin, the Duke of Bainbridge, and Victor, the Duke of Sutcliffe, in Sutcliffe’s drawing room as they awaited dinner’s announcement. Though most of Society hadn’t returned to Town after the Christmastide holiday, business had required Bainbridge’s and Sutcliffe’s presence in London.

  Naturally, neither would consider leaving their brides behind, nor would their duchesses ever have agreed to the separation. Since wedding, they’d clung together worse than lint on velvet.

  As such, Theadosia, James’s middle sister, and the one most fond of entertaining had invited a few of their friends for dinner. Mathias, Duke of Westfall, conferred in low tones with Maxwell, Duke of Pennington before the frolicking crimson and orange flames flickering in the gray and white marble fireplace.

  Pennington’s wife, Gabriella, sat upon a royal blue brocade settee with James’s youngest sister, Jessica, now the Duchess of Bainbridge, and their mutual friend Justina Farthington. The trio nodded at something Miss Farthington’s aunt, Emily Grenville, was saying.

  “Thea always manages to collect a crowd for any gathering,” James said before taking a long swallow of the superb spirit. “It’s the off-season, yet—” He angled the glass toward those already assembled. His sister had fallen into the role of a duchess as naturally as birds fly and fish swim.

  Conferring a fond look upon his wife, Sutcliff nodded. “She does have a way. She’s happiest when hostessing something or other.” His gaze swept the tastefully decorated room. “And I believe we are expecting a few more guests as well.”

  No sooner had he uttered those words than the butler announced, “Her Grace, The Dowager Duchess of Heartwaite.”

  Equal parts excitement and dread kicked an unrelenting rhythm behind James’s ribcage.

  Exquisite in a midnight blue and white gown, with a filmy lace overskirt, Regine looked ethereal, like heaven had descended to Earth in human form. Angelic and impossibly seductive, too. In the years since she left him, she’d become preposterously more beautiful. A touch of rosy color tinged her high cheekbones, but other than that telltale sign, she remained supremely composed.

  She must’ve suspected he’d be in attendance tonight. After all, his sister played hostess, which meant Regine didn’t intend to avoid him as he did her. He hadn’t considered that.

  After eight years apart, this was the third time in less than a week he’d seen her. James didn’t know how much more his heart or composure could take.

  The old treacherous sentimentality he’d convinced himself he’d annihilated had resurfaced, bubbling and scorching and dangerously near to breaching his self-control. He’d convinced himself he’d put Regine out of his mind and heart years ago.

  What about your soul? Taunted that persistent voice that refused to let him deceive himself.

  Go to hell, he silently retorted.

  Concentrating on the molded plaster ceiling details, he brought his stampeding pulse to a fairly normal pace and waited for the sickening clenching in his gut to ease.

  Blast Thea. James had no doubt whatsoever that his sister had learned Regine was in London and decided to meddle. More on point—play matchmaker. He speared her a reproachful glare, but she merely winked as she rushed forward, hands outstretched, to greet Regine.

  He’d bet his law firm he also found himself seated beside the alluring Dowager Duchess of Heartwaite for dinner, too. Rage and jealousy and disgust roiled within him. Heartwaite had caressed her pearly skin. Trailed his perpetually wet lips on that gloriously silken flesh, and James had only ever tasted her sweet mouth.

  Before evening’s end, he’d have a word with his sister and tell her to cease her interfering. He’d plodded down the road in pursuit of the delectable Regine once. Only a beef-witted, bacon-brained, codpated fool would do so again. He was none of the aforementioned.

  A partnership in a successful law firm and a handful of prosperous investments didn’t now, nor would it ever, make him her equal. The girl he’d fallen in love with no longer existed—if she ever had. Mayhap, he’d only seen what he’d wanted to see. His eyes were wide open now, however. The key to his heart, firmly secured away.

  Regine gracefully angled her head toward him in a restrained, yet regal greeting. A hint of disquiet dulled the brilliance of her black-fringed, azure gaze.

  James doubted anyone else noticed the discomfit that compr
omised her smile and had her midnight lashes sweeping her cheeks, she masked her unease so skillfully.

  Showing a modicum of wisdom, Theadosia guided her newest arrival to the seated women and made introductions.

  God’s teeth, this was going to be a devilishly long and exacting evening.

  James downed the last of the amber spirit in one gulp, earning him a scold from Bainbridge. “That’s no way to treat a superior cognac, old chap. I suggest ale if you don’t want to savor the flavor and simply wish to gulp your spirits like a cup-shot sailor on leave.”

  Sutcliffe caught Bainbridge’s eye and gave a discreet shake of his head while cutting a pointed glance toward Regine.

  Ah, hell. Theadosia had told him. The last thing he wanted was pity from his indecently happily-wed brother-in-law.

  “What?” Eyebrows knit in puzzlement, Bainbridge shifted his attention to her and then back to James. Twice. He flexed his eyes, narrowing them a fraction as comprehension took root, and they went platter wide and soft around the edges.

  Not him too? Blast and damn. A fellow could only tolerate so much unsolicited commiseration.

  “I take it you’re acquainted with the duchess?” Bainbridge drawled, a good deal of amusement and incredulity dripping from each word.

  “Which one? The damned room is overflowing with duchesses,” James snapped. He regretted his sarcasm at once. Particularly since they well knew he was acquainted with the other ladies. “I apologize, Bainbridge. That was uncalled for. I’m a bit off my step tonight.”

  Since a certain lady with ebony hair the midnight sky would envy, and eyes of the palest shade of blue disrupted the rhythm of his heart.

  “Think nothing of it.” Bainbridge swept a glass from the tray of a passing servant. Thrusting the brandy at James in exchange for his empty glass, he said, “Feel free to quaff the entire contents. You look as if you need it.”

  Thank you. Just what a chap likes to hear.