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

by Collette Cameron

  Lucky her. As if she were that desperate. Yet. “Please tell me you said no.”

  “Of course I didn’t.” Giles affected an insulted mien. “That’s for you to decide, but you must make a decision by this Season’s end. We haven’t the funds to sponsor another.”

  Neither would he likely live that long.

  A quartet of giggling misses, trailed by plain-faced Lady Victoria Southwark, staring longingly at Bradford, plowed across their path, scurrying toward the row of chairs to which he had escorted his sister. Obvious as fur on a frog what they schemed. Empty-headed chits.

  “We’ve nearly used the whole of what Aunt Alice bequeathed us.” Tense lines bracketing his mouth, Giles veered his attention from the women.

  He wouldn’t even permit himself interest in a woman, and sympathy welled at the unfairness of his plight. What a superb husband and father he would have made.

  “I know, Giles, and I am trying. Truly.”

  Philomena compelled her stiff lips to smile. They’d exhausted their connections as well, and if it hadn’t been for imposing upon Aunt Alice’s distant relation to the Dowager Marchioness of Middleton, no door in London would have opened to them—the insignificant offspring of a second son and his equally unremarkable wife. “There are still a few weeks left in the Season. All is not yet lost.”

  Giles accompanied her toward the open French windows, lines of fatigue already deepening around his bleary eyes. “I’m not worried, Phil. You’ve caught the attention of several eligible men, and with your beauty and wit, I’ve no doubt you shall have multiple offers.”

  Bless him for his optimism, but blinded by brotherly love, he exaggerated her potential. At two and twenty, with a very modest dowry and a torso and arms riddled with scars, she wasn’t sought after.

  Her beaux consisted of an ancient, almost deaf baronet with a mouthful of rotting teeth, a former sea captain who yet retained a cargo hold’s peculiar odor, a pimply-faced youth in line for an earldom, whose mother had towed him away by his ear upon finding him declaring himself to Philomena at a musicale last week, a banker so tight in the pocket he’d worn the exact same clothing every time she’d encountered him and was wont to stuff his pockets with food when he thought no one looked, a fourth son, without a farthing to his name and a propensity to ogle every bosom within ten feet, and now—God bless my remarkable good fortune—the widower, Mr. Wrightly.

  Yes, they made a dandy selection to pick from. Why, Philomena was all aflutter, trying to determine which of the extraordinary gentlemen to set her cap for. However could she possibly choose between them?

  But choose she must.

  To ease Giles’s fretting, she’d given her word she would marry, in spite of not wishing to ever enter that state, and they truly had exhausted most of their meager funds. Despite making economies, they’d only enough money to pay the rent and their expenses through July. To keep them from the poor house, and prevent him from seeking employment, she must wed. He was too weak, and sure as the rich guzzled champagne, acquiring a menial position would mean a speedier end for him.

  If any one of her suitors didn’t set her stomach to roiling worse than a pitching deck during a tempest, she would’ve said her vows tomorrow.

  Squaring her shoulders, Philomena offered him what she hoped was a brave smile.

  What needs done, gets done.

  Hopefully, none of her admirers lurked outside, for she’d no wish to encounter them alone. She hadn’t curbed her tendency to speak her mind, an attribute not favored by males, and she wasn’t in a position to spurn anyone’s attentions just yet.

  Almost to the exit, she touched his arm. “I’ll meet you outside, Giles, as soon as you are able. Who knows, I might stumble upon yet another potential husband upon the terrace.”

  And Lady Clutterbuck might cease gossiping, and snowflakes won’t melt in hell.

  Haggard lines creased Giles’s eyes, and he gave her a firm nudge. “Miss Kingsley is looking this way. Hurry, Phil, go before she recognizes us.”

  Chapter Two

  “Make it something quite spectacular, will you? Something scandalous to keep their forked tongues flapping for a good long while.” Bradford winked and grinned at his sister and her soon-to-be-husband before spinning on his heel. Allen Wimpleton had just proposed to Olivia, and he wouldn’t stay and intrude upon his sister’s special moment.

  Not exactly proper brotherly advice, Kingsley, especially for a viscount.

  He’d never much adhered to, nor much cared for, the haute ton’s version of propriety. Hadn’t he just proven that by escaping outdoors? The dozen or so introductions he had endured, mostly to wide-eyed, blushing misses, had quite put him off, and he’d absconded to the garden a half hour after arriving without dancing once or even greeting Lord and Lady Wimpleton. Quite beyond the pale, even for him.

  Bradford mentally shrugged. So what?

  After glimpsing a woman reminding him of a lost love, joy and shock had momentarily stunned him before reality cruelly whispered the truth. Blanketed in a cloak of disappointment, he’d sought a few moments alone and come upon his sister and her beau.

  Perhaps Wimpleton and Olivia would indulge in a wholly inappropriate kiss in full view of the guests mingling on the terrace. Bradford heartily hoped so. He would if he were them. If a dame or two had a fit of the vapors as result, so much the better. At least this ball would be memorable, and the hullabaloo added a degree of interest to an otherwise wholly predictable, and altogether boring, evening.

  Whistling to the strains of a waltz filtering through the open French windows, he strode the curved flagstone footpath deeper into the manicured gardens, lit here and there by lanterns atop wrought iron posts.

  The giggles, rustles, and muffled groans emanating from the shrubberies he passed hinted at activities much more outrageous than the sweethearts’ tete-a-tete he’d just witnessed. Olivia and Allen adored each other, and if they wanted to express their love publicly, so be it. Stuff the Beau Monde’s pompous posturing and endless hypocritical rules.

  A throaty laugh floated from a bush several feet away.

  Brow raised, Bradford hustled by the shuddering greenery lest he find himself privy to a rather intimate display.

  Awkward, that.

  On second thought, perchance a modicum of wisdom ought to be observed regarding engaging in public affection. How those tumbling about in the foliage with the abandon of frisky field mice or amorous squirrels expected their mussed hair or wrinkled and stained clothing to go undetected confounded him. Unless they’d stripped stark naked before coupling.

  Bare arses bobbing amongst leaves?

  He chuckled softly. Wouldn’t that raise a few eyebrows? Probably lecherous ogling, too.

  Life was meant to be fun and enjoyed, and by Jove, he fully intended to do just that. Better to have a damned jolly time of it, make the most of every moment—as long as he didn’t hurt others as he went about his larks. In any event, his wicked wit and hunger for excitement made it impossible to do otherwise. However, his recently acquired title put a confounded damper on things, a cumbersome yoke of responsibility and duty he’d never expected—nor wanted.

  Though now that he bore a title, he still didn’t know many days he might have left on this earth, or what twists or obstacles destiny might hurl his way. His new status gave testament to that. His uncle, the former viscount, and cousins—the heir and the spare—had drowned in a boating accident mere months after Father succumbed to apoplexy, thrusting the viscountcy upon an unenthusiastic Bradford.

  Death had brushed her icy fingertips across his soul not so very long ago as well, and though he’d escaped with his life, two of the sugar mill workers had not. Mother had died far too young, too, and Philomena—his sweet Phil—had been on the cusp of womanhood when tragedy struck and stole her from him.

  His earlier levity fled.

  Twice in less than fifteen minutes, she’d stampeded into his thoughts. Shouldn’t he be beyond such melancholy r
eflections by now? He’d known many women since her death, some astonishingly beautiful, witty, and intelligent, yet his heart remained numb and unengaged.

  Quite simply, Philomena had been exquisite—the others, forgettable.

  Perchance that was his lot, to love only once.

  Blast, but he craved a cheroot, the singular bad habit he’d acquired from his sire. One he’d nearly succeeded in putting aside, after witnessing his father’s labored breathing at the end of his life, except for moments such as these, when desperation for the familiar calmative overcame Bradford.

  Cursed weakness.

  Doubly-cursed memories.

  Slowing his pace, he sought a private corner to indulge. If he recalled correctly—he hadn’t been to the Wimpleton’s in over three years—an almost concealed arbor lay nestled in the far corner of the grounds. Few guests had ventured this far from the mansion, and he welcomed the solitude, finding London much too crowded, confining, and noisy after three years living in the Caribbean.

  Blessed wonder neither he nor Olivia had contracted Yellow Fever, or one of the other foul illnesses prevalent in the tropics—precisely why, in addition to opposing slavery, he’d sold the blasted plantation and booked passage to England as soon as they’d laid Father to rest.

  A sweet fragrance wafted past.

  Honeysuckle.

  Warm and subtly erotic, the scent triggered youthful recollections of love lost. Again. Wistfulness he’d not experienced in a long while seized him. He’d have married Philomena had she lived. At six and twenty, he’d yet to find another woman who made him feel even a fraction of what he’d felt for her as a fumbling youth.

  Ah, there stood the arbor, at the end of the path where the glow of two lanterns penetrated the shadows. Bradford quickened his pace, canvassing the area.

  Alone.

  Perfect, he’d take a puff or two, just enough to satisfy his craving, and then return to the ball. A ravishing brunette had caught his eye earlier. Even after all these years, he couldn’t bring himself to direct his attentions to fair-haired women. It seemed a betrayal of Philomena’s memory. If he could finagle an introduction, he was of a mind to ask the dark-haired beauty to save a dance for him. It shouldn’t be at all difficult to arrange. He was prime stock on the Marriage Mart these days.

  As Mr. Kingsley, he’d been an agreeable companion, comfortable in the pocket, a nice fellow to have about. Suitable, but not hotly pursued. As Viscount Kingsley, however, he could scarcely make a public appearance without forward Mamas thrusting their eligible daughters in his path. However, he’d no intention of acquiring a viscountess just yet. Adjusting to his new position, as well as acclimating to England again, was quite enough to take on at once. He wasn’t a damned martyr, for God’s sake. He’d have to be addled to take on a bride at present.

  He felt rather like one of the savory dishes his hostess had laid out for supper. Not at all pleasant to be eyed like a tasty morsel, or lusted after by ladies of the ton more brazen than a Covent Garden strumpet.

  Earlier, a seductive-eyed, full-bosomed peeress had given him a lecherous wink and licked her full lower lip suggestively. Her bold invitation left him cold. Or, perhaps her unfortunate eyebrows, melding into a single furry line across her forehead that wriggled and writhed when she spoke had prompted his escape to the gardens where he’d discovered Allen and Olivia.

  He ought to have been outraged upon interrupting their tryst, but relief that they’d quickly made amends had spurred genuine happiness for them. At least one Kingsley would have a youthful promise fulfilled. His hopes for love had died with Philomena.

  At the bower’s entrance, a movement overhead caught Bradford’s attention. He gave a crooked smile as several shooting stars streaked across the midnight-blue sky. Closing his eyes, he wished Olivia and Allen a lifetime of happiness.

  And lots of babies. He quite looked forward to being an outrageous uncle.

  Sentimental sot.

  He cracked an eye open. Two more flashes whooshed above, their feathery tails leaving a reminder of the universe’s vastness and his insignificance.

  Such an opportunity shouldn’t be wasted, even if it was superstitious drivel.

  Wasn’t every day the sky lit up like fireworks over Vauxhall Gardens. His eyelids drifted shut once more.

  I want to find the passion true love promises again—

  “—to experience true love’s kiss,” a beguiling feminine voice whispered.

  His eye popped open.

  A woman surveyed the heavens, the moon illuminating her upturned face and flaxen hair as she rested one shoulder against the other entrance’s post. In her white gown, a wide, whitish ribbon encircling her curls, and her features faintly blurry in the half light, she appeared ethereal. Angelic.

  “You made a wish too.” Bradford stepped forward.

  Giving a startled squeak, she whirled to face him and tripped on something—a root or uneven stone, perhaps. Unbalanced, she flailed her arms, dropping her fan.

  He sprang forward and caught the tempting armful around her trim back. Generous breasts pressed his chest, leaving two molten spots, and her fragrant hair teased his nose. Inhaling the flowery essence blending with the honeysuckle-laden air, he tightened his embrace. She fit into the hollow of his arms as snugly as a hand fits a custom-made glove, her plentiful curves promising passion.

  Who was she?

  “Good God, are you insane?” She scrambled free of his embrace then gave his chest a forceful shove. “You scared the stuffing out of me and ten years off my life, you ill-mannered lout. You might damn-well warn someone before you prowl up behind them unawares.”

  Though he couldn’t see her features clearly, he didn’t doubt the sharp-tongued angel glowered at him as she bent to retrieve her fan.

  “What are you doing gadding about out here alone?” She jabbed the accessory toward the path. “Shouldn’t you be inside dancing, or seducing, or doing whatever handsome, privileged men do at these affairs?”

  What was she doing lurking in the bower alone?

  “How do you know I’m handsome? I could be a pock-scarred, toothless troll.” He couldn’t identify her in the shadowy enclosure. Had they been introduced tonight? “It’s too dark to make out my features. I know, because I’m doing my utmost to see your face. If it’s anything like your voice, I can expect utter loveliness.”

  “Of all the flowery hogwash—” She poked her head out the entrance, her champagne-colored hair shiny in the lantern light, and after looking both ways, she retreated deep into the bower.

  Was she expecting someone? Not unusual. Many lovers took advantage of gatherings to indulge in an assignation. Disappointment that she waited for someone prodded him, nonetheless.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “That was unpardonably rude.”

  Transparent, honest, and quick to apologize. How refreshing. Perhaps she truly was an angel.

  “I’ve never been able to bridle my waspish tongue, I’m afraid.” Her husky, self-conscious laugh had him imagining all sorts of things she might do with her tongue.

  Bradford edged nearer. Something niggled in the back of his mind. They’d met before. He’d bet on it. Probably before Father had hied him and Olivia off to the sweltering, disease-riddled ends of the earth.

  Three years wasted on a doddering old fool’s pursuit.

  Ah, well. Naught could be done to alter the past. He much preferred the present and the intriguing sprite hovering in the arbor. He typically avoided blondes, but this woman with her light hair drew him. “No apology necessary. I confess, I was so disconcerted by your wish mirroring mine, I didn’t think to alert you to my presence.”

  “You did give me a tremendous start.” Releasing a musical laugh, she flipped her fan open and waved it before her, not coyly but fervently, as if overheated. “I confess. I’m mortified you overheard my wish. You must think me a ninny, talking to myself.”

  He was forgiven. Just like that. No pouting or fussing. Definit
ely an angelic being.

  “Not a bit of it.” After all, his wish had been as silly. “I dare say, we are at our most honest when we speak to ourselves, are we not?”

  “Hmm, I suppose.”

  In the nebulous lighting, he couldn’t read her expression.

  She wore an unusual gown. Not the typical capped sleeve with a wide expanse of bosom exposed. Her sleeves fastened tightly around her wrists, and the neckline covered her collarbone.

  Perhaps she was bent on creating a new fashion or didn’t give a whit about current trends. Or, unlike a number of ladies present at the ball, wearing dampened gowns and bodices that all but exposed their nipples, she claimed exceptionally modesty.

  In any event, the gown overlaid with some sort of golden overskirt shimmered in the filtered light and clung to her form, reaffirming what he’d discovered when he’d held her in his arms. She possessed a goddess’s supple figure; just the sort of woman he favored in his bed.

  Digging into his memory’s bowels, he couldn’t produce a whit of recollection regarding where he’d met this treasure or what her name might be. Having spent the last years abroad, tending a declining sugar plantation—a loathsome task since he abhorred slavery—while Olivia nursed their sickly father, Bradford, a self-confessed, dismally poor correspondent, had lost contact with his school chums and those previously in the Kingsleys’ social circle.

  “I know it’s devilishly boorish of me, and utterly improper, but please allow me to introduce myself, though I feel certain we’ve met before.”

  “I know who you are, Viscount.” Snapping her fan closed, she peered out the entrance again, the lanterns’ light bathing her face. She gave him a sideways look. Not coyness exactly, more guarded uncertainty, and she definitely expected someone. “All of London is abuzz about the return of the Kingsleys and your good fortune in acquiring a title and wealth.”