Her Scandalous Wish (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 3)

by Collette Cameron

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other books by Collette Cameron

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  From the desk of Collette Cameron

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  The Other Waltz with a Rogue Novellas

  HER SCANDALOUS WISH

  A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Series Book 3

  By

  Collette Cameron

  Blue Rose Romance LLC

  in partnership with Windtree Press

  Portland, Oregon

  Her Scandalous Wish - A Waltz With a Rogue Novella

  Copyright © 2016 by Collette Cameron

  Cover Design by Darlene Albert

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By downloading or purchasing a print copy of this book, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Blue Rose Romance LLC

  8420 N Ivanhoe # 83054

  Portland, Oregon 97203

  ISBN: 9781943601158

  www.collettecameron.com

  Other books by Collette Cameron

  A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Series:

  A Kiss for Miss Kingsley

  Bride of Falcon

  Castle Brides Series:

  The Viscount’s Vow

  Highlander’s Hope

  The Earl’s Enticement

  Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper Series:

  Wagers Gone Awry

  Schemes Gone Amiss

  Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series:

  Triumph and Treasure

  Virtue and Valor

  Heartbreak and Honor

  A Scottish Short Story

  Heart of a Highlander

  Anthologies and Box Sets

  Once Upon a True Love’s Kiss: Eight Tantalizing Kiss and Tell Stories

  Passionate Promises: An Embracing Romance Anthology

  Dedication

  I lost a beloved grandmother, a step-grandfather, and a foster brother in two separate house fires.

  I humbly dedicate this book to burn victims everywhere.

  Bless you!

  Acknowledgements

  I must give a tremendous shout out to Julie Johnstone for providing HER SCANDALOUS WISH with a wonderful cover quote, Victoria Vane for arranging the photo shoot that allowed me to purchase the amazing cover image, and Darlene Albert for what has to be one of my most favorite covers. My editor Danielle Fine who catches those blasted dangling modifiers I always miss cannot go unheralded, nor can my faithful beta readers and ARC reviewers.

  And hubby, I promise, life will return to normal, someday. Maybe.

  Chapter One

  Wimpleton’s Ball, London, England

  Late May 1818

  One, two, three, four ... No, I think there are actually five.

  Yawning behind her partially open fan, Philomena peeked through the leaves of the enormous cage-shaped potted ficus and counted the wiry hairs sprouting from Lady Clutterbuck’s chin. The chinwag and her cronies gossiped a short distance away, their unending litany contributing to the onset of Philomena’s nagging headache.

  She relaxed a fraction. No sign of Mr. Wrightly, a repugnant would-be suiter, and the reason she’d dove behind the plant when she spied him looking for her earlier.

  Pressing two fingertips between her eyes to ease the thrumming there, she located the mantle clock and breathed out a soft sigh. Not yet ten o’clock. She allowed a droll smile. Giles wouldn’t consider leaving before the supper dance.

  No indeed.

  Your brother is determined to find you a husband before Season’s end, Philomena Martha Elizabeth Pomfrett. Whether you like it or not.

  And she most emphatically did not.

  Despite her lack of interest, or the cost to his already fragile health, dear Giles dutifully escorted her to event after event, evening after evening. And she obediently—well, more aptly, reluctantly—husband-hunted.

  Content to become a spinster, the mercenary process conflicted with her principles and put her out of sorts, but Giles’s time ran short so, for his sake, she pressed onward. Fear of her prospective husband’s reaction to her scars created a permanent knot in her belly, and she swallowed against the dryness in her mouth.

  Enough.

  She shoved the worry aside. She’d deal with that obstacle when the time came. First she had to acquire a spouse, and her prospects weren’t altogether promising.

  “Oh, would you look at that delicious specimen of manhood.” The lascivious tone of Lady Clutterbuck’s cohort was entirely inappropriate for an aged, married peeress. “Utterly Scrumptious. Do you know who he is?”

  The dame actually licked her lips, and thrust her bosoms skyward. Considering her breasts’ monstrous size, they barely lifted above her ample waist, and a mere moment later, breathing heavily, she sagged into her former sack-shaped posture.

  What unfortunate gentleman had found himself the target of the peeress’s lewd attention this evening?

  “Bradford, Viscount Kingsley. He’s just come into his title. One hopes he proves himself worthy of the honor and avoids associating with inferiors and underlings.” Lady Clutterbuck’s strident voice plowed into Philomena with the force of a winter gale. The dame jutted her superior nose into the air. “That’s become so common of late with all the mushrooms and nabobs thinking to force their way into Polite Society. Deep pockets are no substitute for good breeding, I say.”

  Bradford? Here?

  Philomena craned her neck to see around the blasted plant.

  Where?

  Breath held, she deftly parted the foliage and bent forward.

  There, at the ballroom’s entrance in his formal evening attire, looking every bit the gentleman of refinement with his lovely auburn-headed sister, Olivia, on one arm and the distinguished Duchess of Daventry on the other. Unable to deny the giddiness seeing him again brought, fleeting excitement filled Philomena.

 
He swept the room with his brilliant, blue-eyed—slightly bored—gaze, and she jerked backward, kicking the container as she tumbled into the wall.

  He can’t see you, ninny.

  The gossips snapped curious, somewhat distracted glances in her direction.

  Drat it all.

  She dropped into a crouch with only her forehead visible above the blue and white porcelain, and in a moment, they put their graying heads together and launched into another round of on dit. For the first time, Philomena gave thanks that rumors dominated their narrow, peevish minds.

  Peering between the ficus’s woven branches, she bit her lip as her stomach toppled over itself. She wasn’t ready to see Bradford. Face tanned, his raven hair glistening in the candlelight, he threw back his head and laughed at something the duchess said.

  How could he have grown even more beautiful? Deucedly unfair to womanhood.

  Still squatting, she pivoted right, and then shuffled left. Where was Giles? He’d promised her a beverage several minutes ago. He was nowhere to be seen, at least not from this awkward position.

  Most likely, he’d gotten snared in a conversation with another hard-of-hearing matron. That’s what came of exploiting their distant connection to the Dowager Marchioness Middleton in order to introduce Philomena to Polite Society.

  Not one of the ladies in the dame’s favored circle boasted a birthday less than five and seventy years ago, and inevitably, a matron or two or three, imposed upon him to fetch a ratafia, escort her to the card room, retrieve a wrap, or some other trivial matter. Kindhearted, Giles had never been able to politely make his excuses, so he amiably did as they bid.

  Half the time, the old birds didn't need what they requested. They just enjoyed a handsome young man’s attention for a few moments.

  Biting her lower lip, Philomena braved another glance to the ballroom’s entrance. Bradford had disappeared into the crowd as well.

  Good. She could make her escape.

  A cramp seized her calf as she moved to rise. Curses. Closing her eyes, she gripped the pot’s edge, waiting for the spasm to pass. Pray God no one came upon her hugging the pottery. Rather hard to explain her sudden rapt interest in dirt and greeneries.

  Easing upright, she surreptitiously examined those nearest her. No one had noticed her. Pretty much a testament to her entire dismal Season. An incomparable, she was not.

  Ah, here came Giles now, bearing a glass of ratafia in one hand and punch in the other. His limp had become more pronounced, and his countenance more wan, than it had been scarcely twenty minutes ago. Nonetheless, despite the ravages of ill-health, his striking visage turned many a fair maid’s head as he ambled toward her hiding place.

  Why did he insist on putting them through this every night?

  He wants to make certain you are provided for when ...

  She blinked away the familiar prickle of tears and the accompanying rush of anger. His delicate heart could fail at any moment. The injustice galled. He should be strong and healthy, seeking a spouse himself, not gravely weakened by a prolonged fever and resigned to an early death.

  How she wished there’d been no need for him to enlist, wished he hadn’t been stationed in the West Indies, hadn’t been wounded, had received proper treatment. Hadn’t contracted Scarlet Fever.

  If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  Forcing composure, Philomena schooled her features into pleasant lines. She would bear her grief with quiet dignity.

  His forehead furrowed, Giles peered about in search of her.

  Eager to intercept him, and grateful to be spared overhearing more of Lady Clutterbuck’s malicious claptrap, Philomena skirted the pot and, after edging along the wall a few feet, stepped out into the open.

  Perhaps he would consider joining her in a game of loo or whist. His resting a spell at the card tables would also spare her another partnerless set or two. Blasted hard to acquire a husband when she spent most dances tapping her toes or pretending absorption in cornices, portraits, and elaborately painted ceiling panels.

  “There you are.” Passing her the ratafia, Giles grinned and winked, his gray-green eyes, so like hers, glinting with mirth. He dipped his honey-blond head near her ear. “Hiding again, little sister?”

  He knew her too well.

  She shook her head before taking a sip of the overly-sweet beverage. “No, I’m just avoiding—”

  “Is that Kingsley?” Gaze as steely and cold as his tone, Giles canted his head to a cluster of guests not more than thirty feet away.

  Philomena had thought Bradford attractive across the wide room, but this devilish, rake was garnering moon-eyed sighs and giggles from the younger misses and calculating, seductive glances from the faster, mature set. He hadn’t seen her yet, and she wheeled around, presenting her back. The air clamped in her lungs so fiercely, her head spun dizzily, and her glass slipped from her hand. “Oh, dear God.”

  Her ragged gasp alerted Giles, and he seized her drink, preventing an embarrassing mishap or calling Bradford’s attention to her.

  Scorn sharpened the planes of his thin face as he scowled at Bradford. Quaffing his remaining punch, Giles then tossed back her ratafia before taking both cups in one hand and maneuvering her into the crowd. His gaze, simmering with sympathy, plucked at her self-control.

  “Why don’t we take a turn about the terrace, Phil? A bit of fresh air might help steady your nerves and allow you a few moments to compose yourself.”

  So that you don’t make an utter cake of yourself.

  She refused to peek over her shoulder, stiffening her spine until the taut muscles between her shoulder blades pinched.

  Had the women fluttering their eyelashes and sending coquettish smiles Bradford’s way any notion how ridiculous they looked? Scant difference lay between their brazen invitations and those of seasoned, dockside harlots. Not that Philomena blamed them. He’d matured into an arresting figure of a man, while she concealed hideous scars, necessitating a gown far from the first peak of fashion.

  Jealousy dowsed with pain nipped her heart. Once upon a time, he had reserved that charming, sensual smile for her alone. Well, she’d convinced her naïve, younger self he had.

  “It’s just there, through those French windows. You go along, and I’ll be right out after I find Lady Middleton’s misplaced shawl and put these down or find a servant to take them.” Giles nodded in the doors’ direction and half-lifted the glasses. “Earlier, I noticed a charming path through the gardens we might stroll.”

  And exhaust himself further? No. A secluded bench was a far better option.

  Dragging her musings from Bradford, flashing his enigmatic smile at the tittering females, Philomena gave a short jerk of her head. “Yes, yes, fresh air and a stroll. An excellent notion.”

  Escape before the tears she swore she’d stopped shedding for him breached the damn of her resolve and surged down her cheeks. Why did seeing him hurt so awfully after all this time?

  She should be over him. Wanted to be over him. Had thought she was until this miserable instant. Joy and anguish at seeing him again wrestled fiercely, each vying for supremacy.

  Stupid, fickle heart.

  Curling her gloved fingers into fists, and with determination in each step, she deftly navigated through the throng, her focus locked on her refuge—the lantern-lit garden. Perhaps, like a mythical tree nymph, she could disappear into the greeneries for the rest of the evening. Truth be known, no one but Giles would miss her.

  Bradford hadn’t sent a single letter, not one, the miserable wretch. And neither had he attempted to contact her or Giles after the fire that took Mama’s and Papa’s lives and nearly hers as well. A blaze that had destroyed their home and that Bradford’s fiend of an uncle had started in the sanctuary—accidentally, he claimed, the lying bugger.

  Day after day during the months of her convalescence, Philomena had hoped and prayed Bradford would come to see her or at least send word. Her love gave her strength, gave her the will
to fight to live, helped her bear the anguish of her healing burns and the horrific loss of her parents and home.

  By the time she left her sick-bed, she had relinquished any expectation of hearing from him again. Standing before her aunt’s filmy dressing table mirror, Philomena cringed at the havoc the fire had wreaked on her arms and chest. Yet she possessed a measure of gratitude too, that except for a few minor burns on her shoulders and neck, the rest of her body had been spared. Taking her heart and her youthful love, scarred as viciously as her body, she’d tucked them away, determined never to endure pain that torturous again.

  Bradford’s shallow promises—that he’d love her until the end of time, that as soon as he was old enough, he’d ask for her hand, that he couldn’t wait to marry her, that their difference in stations didn’t matter—all lies. He hadn’t wanted a maimed wife after the fire, and now that he held a title, he could choose a diamond of the first water for his viscountess.

  Bitter knowledge to her injured pride and wounded soul.

  “You knew you’d probably see him, Phil.” Giles steered her further away from the salivating dames and the man who’d trampled her heart. He pressed her elbow. “It’s the talk of London, his arriving in England on the cusp of his uncle’s death. At least you were spared his company the better part of the Season. And you’ve suitors aplenty to choose from. Why, just this evening, Mr. Wrightly asked if he might court you.”

  “He did?”

  How ghastly.

  Double her age, the thrice-widowed, rich nabob made no secret he sought a young wife to beget an heir on. Coarse, vulgar, and perpetually reeking of rancid lard and sweat, Mr. Wrightly had finally deduced no lady of consequence would consider his suit, so he’d lowered his standards and now directed his attention to Philomena.