Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle

by Bronwyn Scott

  Her options hit her with startling clarity. If she stayed at her uncle’s rented town house as a virginal débutante, she would have no way to fight her wedding to Oswalt. There was nothing for it. She would have to find a way on her own to break the contract. There would be severe consequences, but she would suffer them.

  Immediately, her mind raced over her options. The most obvious option was to run away. Where could she go? Who could help her? She sat down on the bed and sighed. She had no answers to any of those questions, but it hardly mattered. She was far too bright to ignore the reality. If she was discovered at any point, she would be brought back to London and forced to fulfil her uncle’s contract.

  No, running away wasn’t a valid choice. Julia prided herself on being practical. If she was honest now, she had to admit that the prospect of successfully eluding Oswalt, who would most likely hire professionals to hunt her down, was a slim one indeed. She had learned much during her short time in London, but she had not learned enough to hide herself indefinitely, or at least until her twenty-fourth birthday, which marked the end of her uncle’s guardianship. Even then, she wasn’t certain being four and twenty would nullify her uncle’s contract with Oswalt.

  She stood up and started pacing again. ‘Think, Julia, think. How do you get out of the contract?’ She mumbled to herself. She could use the 1823 legislation and marry another. Her uncle couldn’t stop her. She discarded that notion immediately. Where would she find a husband in five days who would be willing to risk marriage against a pre-existing contract?

  A husband might be too ambitious on short notice, but one didn’t need a husband to be ruined. She could cast aspersions on her suitability. That option might work. A plan began to form.

  There was a rout tonight at Lady Moffat’s. It would be well attended and many of the beaus who made up her court would be there. She would lure one of them out on to the terrace, coax a walk in the garden, flirt with him a bit and make sure they were found in a compromising situation.

  Yes.

  No.

  Julia shook her head. The only way that would work would be if Oswalt cried off in the heat of his anger over being cuckolded before the ink dried on the contract. He might not care. He might not believe her and insist on the examination anyway and the physician would discover her hoax. The idea left too much to chance. Besides, even in her dire straits, she couldn’t lower herself to be like her uncle and use an innocent pawn in a deceitful game. She couldn’t countenance one of her swains being used so poorly at her whim.

  She must be thoroughly ruined in order to ensure the contract would be void. She must be ruined tonight and back in the morning to prove it. Then Oswalt would be thwarted in a very final manner. Julia tapped a finger on her chin. How did one get ruined quickly?

  There was prostitution, of course. She could saunter into Covent Garden and offer herself to the first man who came along. But that wasn’t much of an option. She knew from a stern lecture she’d accidentally overheard Cousin Gray give his younger brothers about the importance of being selective in ‘satisfying their urges’ that people could get infected with sexually related diseases. Unfortunately, Gray had seen her before she could learn much more. But while all the nuances of catching such a disease were beyond her realm of knowledge, she didn’t think it was much of a trade to risk infection and what Gray had termed as ‘certain lingering death’ for being Oswalt’s enslaved wife. At least with Oswalt, there was the chance he would die soon. With the other, there was no chance of any redemption on the horizon.

  Common prostitution might be out of the question, but the direction was correct. Julia turned at the wall and paced another length of the room, veering around the bed to the window. She’d also heard vague, scandalous references from her male cousins regarding brothels that held virgin auctions. That was a distinct possibility. She didn’t know precisely what such an event entailed, but she would definitely be compromised.

  Julia’s stomach clenched and she experienced a wave of nausea at the import of what she meant to do. Could she go through with it? Could she give herself to an unknown man? Would that be any better than the indignities Oswalt’s proposal forced upon her?

  The truth was, she found her options as abhorrent as marriage to Oswalt. It was positively terrifying to imagine the consequences of her choices. If she chose to run away, she’d be running away from a lot more than Oswalt. She’d be shut out of society for ever. No one would dare countenance a friendship with a woman who had done what she was contemplating. There would be no husband or children of her own in the future. Such action could not be erased. Her family would have nothing to do with her. After this, she would be irrevocably on her own.

  She would be free. Entirely left to her own devices.

  Julia sat down hard on the bed, momentarily stunned by the revelation. Freedom had suddenly become quite expensive. It was clear now that freedom would cost her more than embarrassment at a brothel and an uncomfortable confrontation with her uncle. Those things would be over in a week. But she would keep paying for the rest of her life, and life, the way she knew it, would be over for good.

  Her life would be over for good with Oswalt, too. No matter what she chose to do, it was a certainty that everything was going to change irrevocably this week. She was at a crossroads whether she wanted this to be so or not. She wished Cousin Gray was here to talk things through with her. But Julia supposed she’d better get used to being alone and relying on no one but herself. It was going to be her lot in life. Today might be the last day she had to decide her fate. Would she put her faith in her own capabilities to make her way in the world or would she put herself into Oswalt’s hands?

  Better the devil you know? Not this time. She would summon her courage and take matters into her own hands.

  Resigned and more than a little bit frightened, Julia bit her lip and began to think through the only choice open to her. It would have to be the auction. In her mind’s eye, she could see her strategy unfolding.

  She would convince her aunt and uncle that she was accepting, even glad of the decision they’d made on her behalf. She would call for the carriage and tell her aunt and uncle that she wanted to share the good news of her betrothal with her friend, Elise Farraday. Hmm. She’d better make sure of the weather first.

  Julia drew aside the curtains at the window and peered outside. Good. The morning fog was clearing away to reveal a blue sky of late spring. The driver would believe her if she asked to be dropped a few streets from Elise’s home in order to walk and enjoy the lovely day. Then she would make her escape and wend her way through the streets to Covent Garden and from there to the finer brothels of London where she’d make her plea. By morning she would be ruined.

  By a stranger.

  In humiliating circumstances.

  From which there would be no turning back.

  It was a plan.

  It was her only choice.

  Only?

  The word gave Julia pause. As a rule, she did not believe in dichotomous thinking. Life was far too complicated to narrow the world’s complexities into a mere two categories of black and white, yes and no, true or false, do or do not.

  Was there another way? A more private way? Julia felt cowardly to even consider it, but perhaps there was a way to be ruined and to preserve discovery unless forced to reveal her fate beyond the confines of her uncle’s contract? If so, she’d much prefer it to the public exposure of an auction and the risk of someone recognising her, the risk of being revealed before the deed could be accomplished. The spark of a counter-plan flickered to life in the back of her mind and gathered impetus.

  Another way.

  Another man.

  None of the young bucks that peopled her débutante’s court would qualify. Unbidden, there came to mind a blurred image of a man she had encountered once—she couldn’t use the word ‘met’ for she’d only seen him from a distance at a crowded rout one of her first nights out in London. But whispers about his presence ha
d made the rounds of the ballroom readily enough and for once no one thought about editing their words in front of débutantes. Indeed, the opposite was nearly true. Mothers apparently felt their pristine daughters needed to know about the dangers this man posed.

  He was Paine Ramsden, third son of an earl, known in less charitable circles as a dark rake with a reputation so black he could not be countenanced in polite society. Julia had learned quickly that he attended the rout solely as a favour to his aunt, the Dowager Marchioness of Bridgerton, Lily Branbourne, who insisted he was her favourite nephew, regardless of the public outcry against his morals.

  Julia smiled to herself. By repute, Paine Ramsden was an irresponsible charmer who was loose with his affections and his finances. There were other reports, too, circling the ballroom that night—darker rumours that went beyond the usual complaints of womanising and wastrel tendencies—rumours of time abroad in foreign lands as penance for his involvement in a duel over a woman. The rumours didn’t end there. It was quietly reported that since his return he’d been living hedonistically on the shadowy fringes of the demi-monde, having bought a tumbledown gambling hell of his own to support himself.

  Julia didn’t care two figs for his proclivities. The more debauched he was, the less likely he would be smitten with a case of misplaced honour in the morning. Paine Ramsden it would be. She was sure of her course now. She had only to find him and convince him to ruin her. For the latter, she had her pearl earbobs tucked in a small bag to provide any additional financial inducement he would need to see the deed done. A gambler like him would know where to pawn them. Yes, the latter would be easy. Based on his poor social standing, it would be harder to do the former.

  She might not know where he’d be, but she had a good idea of where he wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t be at any of the soirées or musicales scheduled for the evening. He wouldn’t be at any of the fancy gentleman’s clubs or gaming establishments on St James’s. The gossip she’d heard maintained that he took rooms on Jermyn Street. There was little chance he’d be there at the time she planned to seek him out, but that was where she would start. A landlady or a neighbour might know his direction for the evening or be able to guide her to one of his favorite haunts. True, she didn’t know which of the bachelor establishments he lived at, but if she had to go door to door asking landlords, then that’s what she’d do. That time of night, the bachelor tenants would most likely all be out carousing and there would be few home to note her presence.

  Julia cast another glance at the clock. Eight hours until dark. Eight hours to convince her aunt and uncle of her acceptance of their decision and that she wanted to stay home that evening to work on her trousseau. No. That sounded too suspicious, given that she despised needlework. Better to go with them and give them the slip at the rout tonight. Lady Moffat’s entertainment was bound to be a crush and her aunt and uncle were not vigilant chaperons once her dance card was full.

  It should be easy to clandestinely slip away through a back-garden gate without being missed for some time. Her uncle would be in the card room, oblivious to what was happening in the ballroom, and her aunt would be caught up in conversation with her friends. Her aunt would assume she was with the Farradays, who often acted as her stand-in chaperons at such events.

  Determined to follow through with her decisions, Julia gave her attention to the massive oak wardrobe standing in the corner. She strode to it and threw open the door, revealing dozens of gowns made of the finest silks and fabrics. She eyed the gowns with a new cynicism. Her uncle had not spared any expense when it came to outfitting his niece for her Season. The reasons for such extravagance were horribly clear.

  Now, for the last decision. Julia tapped a long finger against her chin, considering the array of finery spread before her. What did a girl wear to her ruination?

  Chapter Two

  ‘I never guessed you held aces!’ Gaylord Beaton, the young man seated across the card table from Paine Ramsden, threw down his cards in disgust. ‘You’ve the luck of the devil tonight, Ram.’

  The others at the table in the dimly lit gambling hell laughed and threw in their hands. ‘What do you mean “tonight”? Ram has the devil’s luck every night!’ another exclaimed.

  ‘Have you considered I might have something more than luck?’ Paine Ramsden gathered his winnings with a swift, practised move of his arm.

  ‘What would that be? A fifth ace?’ The table broke into guffaws at Gaylord’s bold jest.

  ‘Skill,’ Paine replied drily, giving them each a piercing stare before he began to deal. He’d heard the underlying anger in young Beaton’s jest.

  This was the second night these bucks had been in to play and the second night they’d lost heavily. In his experience, an angry gambler was a dangerous gambler. He’d have to keep his eye on the young man. He’d hoped Beaton had learned his lesson last night and taken steps to preserve the remainder of his quarterly allowance. But apparently Beaton thought those steps involved trying to win back his losses, a common enough mistake and one Paine had made during his own misguided youth.

  The five of them were playing high-stakes Commerce. He was winning thoroughly, having won a hundred pounds from each of the four young bucks at the table. Paine should have been enjoying it. Instead, he was bored. No, he was beyond bored. He had been bored three nights ago. Now, he was apathetic.

  Paine discarded one of his three cards and drew the queen of hearts. With the addition of the queen, he held three of a kind. They were all going to lose again. He waited to feel the elation of victory. He felt nothing—not the excitement of winning, not the pleasant blurring of the edges of the world from the cheap brandy in his glass, not the spark of arousal from the sassy promises of the lightskirt who hovered near his shoulder. He was numb.

  How had that happened? When had the usual thrills lost their abilities to sate him? There had been a time earlier in his return from abroad when simply being in a seedy place like this, several streets away from the well-lit halls of St James’s, had been thrill enough to send his adrenalin racing at the prospect of needing to draw the knife secreted in his boot. He’d liked the prospect so much, he’d bought this place from the owner, who was looking to retire.

  These days, he was the king of the roost. He’d made the seamy gaming hall his private kingdom. Young bloods looking for racy diversions came to try their hand against him at cards. Hardened gamblers appealed to him for loans when their luck was down. The whores offered themselves to him willingly. He had gone looking for the underworld and now it came looking for him.

  He hardly left except to make a rare appearance in the ton, as he had done several weeks ago to escort his Aunt Lily to an early Season ball. He genuinely liked his Aunt Lily and her forthright manner. But as for the ton, Paine much preferred life outside high society’s restrictions and expectations. His time in India had taught him that. The fact that he had grown tired of his current arrangement merely indicated he needed to find a new excitement.

  Paine set down his cards to a chorus of groans from the table and began unrolling his shirtsleeves.

  ‘You’re not thinking of leaving before we have a chance to win back our losses?’ one dandy cried in dismay. ‘It is only midnight.’

  ‘Exactly so—’ Paine replied, breaking off in mid-sentence. He narrowed his gaze and looked into the smoky gloom beyond the table towards the entrance. There was a commotion at the front. ‘Gentleman, if you’ll excuse me, there seems to be a problem that needs my attention.’

  Paine strode towards the door, aware for the first time that evening of a prick of anticipation growing within him. This was what he needed, something unknown and unpredictable, to spark his enthusiasm again.

  ‘John, is there anything wrong?’ Paine asked the doorman.

  ‘Doorman’ was a polite word for John’s occupation. The hulking man with the crooked nose was charged with the duty of keeping people in who didn’t pay their debts and keeping out those who didn’t belong to the murky dep
ths of the hell. It was a duty he did well. There was seldom an occasion John couldn’t manage. Tonight seemed to be a rare exception. John appeared relieved to see him, although Paine was having difficulty noticing what the trouble might be.

  ‘It’s this ’ere chit. She’s asking for you.’ John stepped aside, revealing what his girth had hidden from Paine’s approach.

  Paine’s breath caught and his member stirred violently. The girl was stunning. One look at her generous invitation of a mouth and his mind was awash with images of bedding her, of stripping her out of the turquoise silk that hugged her curves exquisitely and kissing her until she cried out for all of him. In his veins, his blood began to heat at the prospect. He was alive again.

  ‘It’s all right, John. I’ll speak with her.’ Paine clapped the big man on the shoulder. Was that relief he saw on the girl’s face? He was certain he didn’t know her. She looked far too fine to be familiar with the places he frequented. And too innocent, he amended. There were no chandeliers or crystal goblets here, but the woman beside him had the carriage and clothing of a woman who was familiar with such trappings.

  He gave her one of his rare smiles and offered his arm, drawing her inside. He felt her gloved hand tense where it lay on the sleeve of his linen shirt as she took in the surroundings and he saw the place through her eyes while they wended through the tables; the smell of stale smoke mingled with alcohol and unwashed sweat; the worn garb of the patrons, the faded upholstered chairs and scarred tables.

  Belatedly, he recalled he had left his own jacket at the table and that he wore no extra adornments as was his wont when gambling. No diamond pin twinkled in the folds of a nonexistent cravat, no gems sparkled at the cuffs of his sleeves. By ton standards he was in extreme dishabille, garbed only in a plain white shirt and tan breeches—a far cry from the expected dark evening wear.