Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Your wife is quite the politician. She does you credit, Stockport,’ Shaftesbury said. ‘She tells me she’s hosting a tea for Earl Russell later this week and that we might all sit down and talk things out.’

  Nora nodded, leaving Shaftesbury to stand beside Brandon. ‘I do hope to bring all parties together for an enlightened meeting of the minds.’ Brandon noted her eyes glowed with impish mischief.

  ‘I think it won’t matter, my dear,’ Shaftesbury said. ‘Rumour has it that the Prime Minister is going to change our minds for us, force our hands to get his way. It will just be a matter of time and you’ll have your victory. Still, I applaud your diplomacy. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.’

  Prime Minister Grey made good on his threat to appoint new Liberal peers and pandemonium broke loose in the House of Lords as people began to rethink their voting options. When voting took place again on the Reform Act, Brandon found himself on the winning side. The House of Lords chose to approve it, under duress, of course, but approval none the less.

  Brandon felt buoyed by the victory. It wasn’t a complete victory. He wasn’t fool enough to believe this alone would change the world. But it was a start, like his experimental textile factory that he and Nora were rebuilding together in Stockport-on-the Medlock with its safety measures, limited work day, and the non-hiring of children.

  He had been invited to several rowdy parties, but he found there was only one person he wanted to celebrate with. That was Nora.

  The town house was strangely dark when he arrived. To his knowledge, Nora hadn’t any plans to go out that evening. He let himself in and found no staff awaiting him. Some of his elation faded. He’d been looking forward to a victorious homecoming. Nora knew the vote was tonight.

  Brandon went to the study and poured himself a drink. He mounted the stairs and headed towards their bedchambers. He’d settle in and wait. Wherever Nora was, she’d most likely be home soon.

  He opened the door to the bedroom and halted. Something was different. The room had been disturbed. Something moved ever so subtly from behind the curtains. A wicked smile spread across his face. The Cat was here. He liked this game.

  Seductive tones spoke from the window as Nora stepped from behind the draperies clad in The Cat’s black and looking far too tempting. ‘Hello, Stockport. I’d offer you a drink, but I see you already have one.’

  ‘The Reform Bill passed,’ he said, raising his tumbler in a half-toast.

  Nora came to him and twined her arms about his neck, pressing herself firmly against his body. ‘Yes,’ she breathed huskily. ‘I’d heard reports that a certain Earl was wreaking havoc in the House of Lords over the Act.’ She reached a hand down to cup him. ‘You don’t disappoint.’

  Brandon thrilled to her touch. ‘By that I assume you mean my oratory.’ No legislative victory could make him feel as alive as he felt with Nora.

  She expertly squeezed him through the cloth of his trousers. ‘Is that what they’re calling it these days? I hadn’t heard.’

  Brandon groaned in pleasure and threw back his head in genuine laughter. ‘God, I love you, Nora.’

  Nora cocked her head and looked at him with her green cat’s eyes. He knew she was going to tease. ‘Is that all you can think of to say? I would have thought a great orator like yourself would have something more original.’ Nora smiled gamely. ‘Or has The Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘She’s got more than that. The Cat’s got my heart,’ he said in a voice laden with heavy passion. ‘For ever.’

  ‘For ever,’ she confirmed.

  Grayson Prentiss’s Seduction

  Bronwyn Scott

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 1

  Spring, 1831, Spain

  Grayson Prentiss had minutes left to live. He had no illusions about how long he’d survive in the frigid, churning waves of the Atlantic if the ship sank. So—futile though it might be—he threw all his muscle into turning the great wheel of the ship in a last attempt to counter the fierce storm winds, relentlessly driving the Bluehawk off course.

  Above him, thunder boomed over the cacophony of waves. Jagged lightning slashed a brief illumination of the ship’s ragged rigging and revealed the few men left to man the sails. In that moment, Grayson knew it wouldn’t be long before the ship gave way completely to the destruction of the storm.

  The storm had overtaken them two days ago despite the captain’s best efforts to outrun the foul weather. When the captain’s strength gave out, Grayson had taken over at the helm, struggling to keep the ship on course. But his skills and the sturdy build of the Bluehawk had not been enough. Nor had it been enough to save the ship’s precious cargo, the financial salvation of his family waiting in England. None of them, let alone the valuable cargo of cotton and indigo from the Southern States, would see the fair shores of England again.

  The ship keeled hard to the right and Grayson’s feet slipped. Only his strong grip and the rope he’d knotted to his waist and tied to the ship’s wheel-well prevented him from slamming into the ship’s sides. A crewman screamed as he slid past Grayson, catapulting over the edge into the roiling seas even as Grayson reached out a hand to seize him.

  Breathing hard, alternately cursing and praying between hard-won gulps of air, Grayson righted himself and reclaimed the wheel. He shouted encouragement to the men remaining on deck, though the words were useless, swallowed by the wind and inevitability. Around him lay shattered pieces of wood, parts of the ship that had already succumbed to the weather. Above him, a snapping sound drowned out the storm and grabbed his attention. Lightning struck and Grayson saw the mast nearly split through, teetering in its downward descent.

  Grayson dodged to the right as the massive post crashed onto deck, destroying the ship’s final hope of outlasting the storm. Flame from a toppled lantern burst into the night. Fire spread on the deck in spite of the wet weather. Grayson slipped and felt the heat of flames as he collided with the starboard wall. Heat surrounded him. Below him the cold Atlantic mawed.

  The rope that had so recently been a source of safety now dangled him in a perilous purgatory. Grayson fumbled at his waist for the knife strapped to his belt and used the sharp blade to saw through the rope. To stay meant he would burn. To choose the sea kept him alive, even if it only prolonged the inevitable. Grayson chose life. He made a final slice through the coarse hemp.

  For the sake of the nearly bankrupt viscountcy, for the sake of his two brothers, for the sake of his cousin Julia, Grayson took his chances with the sea.

  Chapter 2

  The clang of bells woke Elena di Duero with a start. The Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death, had claimed another ship.

  In the past, the sound of midnight bells would call Elena and the villagers of Camarinas to dutifully search for survivors. But over the last year, the sound of the bells represented more than duty for her. They were simultaneously a call to hope and fear.

  Elena dressed quickly in warm, serviceable clothing and joined her household and the villagers on the beach, lanterns bobbing in their hands, rain drenching them entirely, goaded on by the sharp-cutting wind. It reminded Elena of the night nearly a year ago that her husband’s ship had foundered so close to home, the lighthouse beacon failing to bring the men safe to port. Her husband’s body had not been found among the wreckage that lined the beaches the following morning or in the weeks afterwards.

  She had mourned her husband, but she had not been overwrought at his demise.
Their marriage had been arranged, orchestrated by their parents and marked with indifference.

  She had not become truly alarmed over his disappearance until Don Alicante swooped in and made it clear that unless he reappeared, she stood to lose the pazo and all that went with it—including her. So she’d struck her devil’s deal with Senor Alicante.

  Elena shivered, not from the cold but from the remembrance of that awful day. In her mind’s eye, Senor Alicante’s “offer” was plainly etched. He’d had the audacity to stand in her front parlor just one month after Alejandro’s ship had gone down and put forward his proposal. As a woman, she had no rights to the property except through her husband or other male relative. So without a male heir, Alejandro’s property was for sale. Without the property or means of support, she would become a destitute widow.

  Or she could marry him.

  She’d pleaded with the don that her husband wasn’t dead, merely missing. She’d argued it was too soon to decide the fate of his estate. Senor Alicante had given her a year’s reprieve to produce her husband from the watery depths, alive.

  But Elena would not countenance such a bald attempt at coercion. She knew that he had had two wives already who had met with untimely fates, and rumors from his villa had not painted him as a generous husband. She’d had a taste of freedom without Alejandro and she was not willing to relinquish it. While the work on the pazo was difficult and time-consuming, it was a price she was more than willing to pay for the freedom and little luxuries she enjoyed. Without the pazo, she had nowhere to go and no source of income. She needed the pazo regardless of her relish for the demanding work. Without it, she was nothing. Still, if she had to chose, she’d want life with Alejandro over the life she’d lead with Don Alicante.

  That was why every time the bells rang, desperate hope rose for Elena. Perhaps the bells rang to signal Alejandro’s return. But each time she’d risen to answer the bells, there had only been disappointment; another wrecked ship, more lost crewmen, one more dashed hope. And time was running out. She had only one month left before Senor Alicante would press his claim.

  Elena joined a group fanning out along the beach looking for survivors. It was not impossible as this ship had met its fate not far from shore. She could even see flames from a fire on deck. If the sea were calmer, a fisherman’s boat could reach it. But for tonight, the storm made such a journey too risky. Beside her, an older woman muttered prayers to Santa Carmen, the patron Saint of sailors.

  There was a loud exclamation a short way ahead of her. Elena looked up, shading her eyes against the slant of the rain. “Senora! Senora! Come quickly!” A woman ran up to her, grabbing her hand. “There’s a man. He’s alive but barely.”

  Elena followed her, tripping over rocks. She pushed her way through the little crowd and held her lantern high to illuminate the form. For a moment in the darkness the lantern highlighted his features and she’d thought wildly the man was Alejandro. But as she steadied the light, she realized the man was a stranger. She bit back her own disappointment and said nothing. Whether or not the man was Alejandro, he was in need of attention.

  The seas had shredded much of his clothing, giving her a substantial glimpse of a muscled physique. Long dark hair lay plastered against a well-sculpted face. It would be a shame to lose such a splendid specimen of a man in his prime; he was too young to die.

  He groaned and Elena swiftly knelt at his side, reaching automatically for his hand. She chafed it in her own, feeling the extreme cold of his skin. She spoke soft words, encouraging him to speak again but no sound came.

  Elena looked up at the villagers and called out instructions. “We must get him warm.” She pointed to four men in the group. “Carry him to my house. It’s closest.” She tried to rise as men came to lift him but the stranger’s hand clenched around hers and refused to relinquish it, showing an incredible amount of strength.

  They made an awkward entourage as they carried the man up the hill toward the pazo—four fisherman with a man slung between them and the senora walking alongside, her hand caught firmly in the unconscious man’s grip. Even before they’d arrived at the pazo gates, the speculations started. Elena could catch snatches from those who crowded close to them, eager to see the stranger: “Even unconscious he grasps her hand like he knows her…with the devotion of a husband. He’s got dark hair…Alejandro had hair like that, wore it long too like this man. Alejandro had wide shoulders.”

  Elena was glad when the iron gates of the pazo swung shut behind her. The man wasn’t Alejandro, though he looked remarkably like him. But she was hesitant to deny the villagers’ hopes. The whole village knew of her situation with Don Alicante. His superior attitude hadn’t made him a favorite with the townspeople and no one was in a particular hurry to have him acquire the Duero property.

  She instructed the men to take their burden up to her room on the second floor. The other rooms weren’t made up and she didn’t want time wasted. This man needed help and comfort immediately. Servants came running at the sight of her and she gave them tasks. The pazo became a flurry of activity. There was water to draw and warm. After a bath, the man would need clothes and blankets and eventually hot food. Elena motioned for two of the women to follow her up to the chambers.

  Once he was deposited on the bed, Elena and one of the women began the process of undressing him, stripping the cold rags from his body. The other woman built up a fire and laid out blankets from a trunk at the foot of the bed. “He’s freezing,” Elena exclaimed, finally succeeding in disengaging her hand long enough to tear away the remains of his shirt. A worrying blue tinge was visible about his lips now that there was light to see by. “We need those blankets!”

  “Here’s a blanket.” The woman, Anna, shook out a blanket and passed it to Elena. “But it’s a shame to cover up such a gem—don’t see a fine healthy male like that just any day.”

  Elena felt her cheeks flame. She was embarrassed to admit that she’d noticed the defined muscles of his torso, the lean curve of his hip, the long lines of his thighs and what lay between them. The cold hadn’t appeared to do too much damage to the member that lay snuggled against his leg in a nest of dark hair. Quickly, she snapped the blanket over him and chided herself for such unruly thoughts about a man in need.

  Chapter 3

  Servants came and went from the room, building up fires, bringing water and hot broth. Through it all, Elena stayed at the stranger’s side, distracting her thoughts with the task of warming him. Eventually, the activity in the room ebbed. The room darkened from the absence of lanterns and lights the servants brought with them. Quiet fell. Anna, the last to go, squeezed her shoulder.

  “There’s nothing more to do, Senora. Get some sleep. We’ll see what the morning brings.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Elena said resolutely, but she heard the underlying message—everyone had done what they could. They’d sought their beds because there was nothing more to be done. The man hadn’t warmed. The blue tinge still flirted about his lips. No one thought he would live. He had been unconscious with a low temperature for a prolonged amount of time. Elena had looked earlier for a bump on the head that might indicate an injury. There’d been none, confirming the worst: he was unconscious because his body hadn’t the strength left for consciousness. His life was slipping away.

  “I’ll stay in case he speaks,” Elena said. “We might learn his name.” We might learn who he was and who to write to in case he doesn’t survive.

  Anna clucked. “Suit yourself. You’re far too good, wasting yourself on a stranger who won’t wake up. Pity that.” She shot Elena a sly look. “He looked an awful lot like Alejandro.”

  “People often see what they want to see,” Elena replied, taking the stranger’s hand again, feeling it flex about her own in reassurance that he was still alive, although the grip was weaker than it had been.

  “Yes they do,” Anna said cryptically, softly shutting the door behind her.

  Elena pushed a strand of ha
ir back from the stranger’s face. Cleaned up and bathed, he was beautiful to look at. Long black lashes shuttered his eyes. “If you wake up, I can see what color your eyes are,” Elena murmured. It was all nonsense—what did it matter what she said to him? “You could tell me your name,” she cajoled in soft tones.

  “Gray—” a hoarse sound came from his elegant lips.

  “Gray,” Elena repeated, surprised to hear anything from him at all. The hand she held squeezed as if in affirmation. “Is that the color of your eyes?” Elena asked. It took a moment for it to register that he’d spoken English.

  But there was no answer, no pressure from his hand. Elena had heard of those close to death rousing themselves one last time. She felt for his pulse and panicked. It was weaker now, slow and faint, his skin still like ice.

  “No!” Elena cried. She could think of nothing more to do. The fire had made the room uncomfortably warm, all to no avail for him—yet her own skin burned with the heat, sweat beading on her brow. If only she could give the stranger some of the heat that burned in her….

  Elena rapidly shed the blouse and skirt she wore, her hands flying as she bent down to pull off the half boots she’d worn to the beach. Wholly naked and without a thought for her own modesty, Elena slipped beneath the covers and took the stranger into her arms.

  Chapter 4

  Ah, that was better. He moaned, responding somewhere in the deep recesses of his unconsciousness. The treasure of warmth had teased him for what seemed an eternity, lingering on the fringes of his skin but never completely penetrating the bone-deep chill. Now the warmth was all around him, enveloping him in its life-giving sanctuary. He was starting to thaw. Out of the warm darkness a voice called to him out, soft and inviting with its gentle mantra: “stay with me.”