The Debutante and the Duke: A Regency Romance (Seductive Scoundrels Book 11)

by Collette Cameron

  Oh, dallying with them, sneaking into gardens and kissing them, stealing their hearts was perfectly acceptable.

  Except—

  She almost missed the first step, so distracted was she. Once she was steady on her beaded satin slippers once more, she returned to her reflections. Except, she’d never have believed it of him.

  How could she have been so wrong about Fletcher?

  Why was he opposed to wedding an Englishwoman?

  His own mother was English, for pity’s sake.

  For the first time in her two-and-twenty years, Rayne had not been afraid of a man who touched her. She most assuredly hadn’t been revolted by Fletcher’s kisses the way she had been when that fat, degenerate pig had attempted to steal her virtue in the library when she was fifteen.

  A bronze candlestick thwacked on the side of his balding head had dropped Sir Lester Dryden like a boulder. From then on, whenever her uncle entertained, Rayne had stayed locked in her chamber, a chair propped under the door handle for good measure, and the candlestick nearby… Just in case.

  She’d peek through the draperies at the arriving men and women, most of whom appeared perfectly proper and normal. But the perversions that had gone on inside Keighsdon Hall had been anything but proper and normal. Even as a young girl, she’d been aware of the hedonistic degeneracy.

  More than once, those first few months, she’d gone one or two days without eating, so fearful was she of leaving her chamber until the last guest departed. She’d learned to keep a stash of non-perishable foods—nuts, apples, dried fruit, and the like—tucked into the back of her armoire for those Friday to Monday licentious revelries.

  That was a polite way to describe the debauchery and depravations.

  As she followed Everleigh and Griffin up the steps, Rayne kept her gaze directly ahead, her expression benign. She’d perfected indifference and was very good at disguising what went on inside her.

  Hadn’t she been doing so for seven years?

  Initially, she’d intended to beg off attending the ball, but an inner resilience and newly found defiance wouldn’t permit her to. Wouldn’t allow the vindictive Duchess of Kincade to succeed in breaking her or humiliating her.

  Though Rayne had been born a commoner, she possessed qualities many of the haut ton lacked—basic decency, for one. No one, especially someone as despicable as Fletcher’s mother, would make her cringe in shame.

  Rayne had no control over her humble origins, but only an idiot wouldn’t feel unease about others uncovering the truth of her common birth. Others meaning the razor-tongued ton. Her dearest friends wouldn’t care two pickles about her birth, though. That was how it should be amongst friends.

  She mightn’t have any influence on the behavior of other people, but she did have control over her character and how she treated others. And by God, come hell or high water, she would continue to be kind, considerate, and thoughtful.

  Renewed determination winged through her, and Rayne edged her chin upward a notch.

  No, she would not flee London as had been her first instinct. They—the duchess and her ilk—would not chase her away. Make her flee like a criminal.

  She would stay and attend every single rout, ball, musical, and other gatherings Everleigh and Griffin were invited to, and therefore her by default as well. Head high, she would smile and carry on as if her heart hadn’t been ripped from her chest and mashed on a grinding stone.

  Inhaling a fortifying breath, Rayne squared her shoulders and followed Griffin and Everleigh into the mansion. Having been warned about the garishness of the Gravenstones’ palatial manor, Rayne’s eyes rounded in wonderment upon entering nonetheless.

  People actually lived here?

  It wasn’t just that the house was owned by very obviously wealthy individuals. They seemed bent on displaying that prosperity, and not tastefully either.

  A grin kicked her mouth up despite her broken heart when she spied an enormous gilded peacock atop a sculpted Grecian vase on proud display in the center of the pink and black marble-floored foyer.

  Griffin must’ve seen it too, for he stopped short, and Everleigh, dressed as Diana, goddess of the hunt, bumped into him.

  Rayne was quite certain she heard him mumble, “Holy hell. How did they know?”

  Casually roving her gaze over those lingering in the massive entryway, she couldn’t help but notice the attention and respect Griffin induced with his very presence.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear. Please excuse my vulgarity.” He placed Everleigh’s hand upon his forearm. Leaning down, he murmured, “Who told them we were coming as peacocks?”

  Amusement playing across her features, she lifted a shoulder. The arrows in the quiver upon her back shook slightly with the movement. “I imagine it was difficult to keep something like that a secret when all of you dukes needed cloaks and masks on such short notice.”

  Who would’ve guessed so many peers could be persuaded to don similar costumes? Griffin’s cloak was a glistening midnight blue covered in gold and silver sequins. The effect was rather stunning, in truth.

  Once having relinquished her cloak, Griffin escorted Rayne and Everleigh into the ballroom, and she stood blinking in wonderment. The scene before her was quite the most outlandish she’d ever seen. The ballroom and been turned into a glistening, glittering gilded forest.

  Well, at least her costume was appropriate.

  Multiple layers of various shades of yellow satin and silk comprised her gown. Dozens of yellow roses, as well as hundreds of clear glass beads, had been sewn onto the netted overskirt. More glass beads covered the bodice. Yellow ribbons had been threaded through her upswept hair, and she wore a wreath of yellow roses atop her head. A silk fan covered with painted yellow roses completed the costume.

  Rayne was quite pleased with the result. She designed the gown herself, and though Mademoiselle Beauchêne had initially frowned at the description, she’d been all compliments and praise during Rayne’s final fitting.

  “Miss Wellbrook,” she had said in her lyrical French accent, “if you ever want a position as a designer, come see me, oui?”

  Rayne scanned the attendees, searching for the other ducal peacocks.

  There was Asherford, heads above the other guests, and wearing a purple cloak. He turned his head this way and that as if he searched for someone.

  Ophelia?

  Ah, and there lounged San Sebastian against a doorframe, his cloak a pale candescent blue. There, leading his duchess onto the dance floor, was the Duke of Dandridge in a vibrant green cloak.

  Each’s duke’s mantle shimmered and sparkled, seeming to change hues as they moved.

  But Fletcher was noticeably absent.

  Not wanting to examine the possible reasons why he was not here and why she should care so very much that he wasn’t, Rayne took a deep breath. Her stomach unknotted a little, and when Ophelia waved to her to join her from across the ballroom, Rayne excused herself.

  “I see Ophelia and Sophronie, just there,” she said to her aunt, canting her head in her friends’ direction.

  Everleigh looked toward the two standing with a trio of other young women dressed as the three muses and nodded. “Go along, dear. Enjoy yourself.”

  Rayne was aware she looked particularly fetching this evening. Unlike many women, the yellow gown flattered her coloring. Most couldn’t wear the shade because it made them look sallow or jaundiced.

  Before, she’d never particularly cared about impressing the gentlemen. In fact, the opposite was true. She tried to remain invisible, but tonight she had something to prove to herself. Fear would no longer control her.

  Smiling and relishing her newfound confidence, Rayne wound her way to Ophelia and Sophronie.

  A simply radiant Nicolette Twistleton waved at them from the middle of the ballroom floor where she danced with the Duke of Westfall, attired in a coral cloak, overset with sequins just like the other dukes’ cloaks.

  “Why, Rayne, you are positively
stunning.” Ophelia eyed Rayne’s gown up and down approvingly.

  Ophelia was dressed all in black with myriads of silver beads and sequins.

  “I’m midnight,” she said, gesturing to her gown and then the jet and silver beads adorning her hair and mask.

  “Very clever,” Rayne said sincerely.

  Sophronie Slater smoothed her hands over her unusual soft leather gown with beautifully colored beads dangling from the sleeves and hem. She wore a sort of soft leather boot that laced up her calves, and she’d braided her strawberry blonde hair. More beads and strips of leather adorned the ends of her braids.

  “This really isn’t a costume but a gift from a very special friend of mine in America,” she said. “She-Who-Walks-Softly and I have been friends practically our whole lives. She gave me this gown as a parting gift before Papa and I sailed to England.”

  “It’s quite lovely,” Rayne said, running a finger over Sophronie’s sleeve. “I’ve never seen any fabric like this.”

  “It’s deerskin,” Sophronie supplied.

  Ophelia caught the end of a leather strip tied to one of Sophronie’s braids between her fingertips. “It’s so soft.”

  Rayne hadn’t seen Ophelia since supper the other night. They’d managed to find a quiet corner to speak privately, and Rayne had admitted to Fletcher’s wink. Ophelia had then confessed that Asherford had approached her about a marriage of convenience.

  It was time he married and produced an heir. That was exactly what he’d said to Ophelia by way of a proposal.

  She’d refused his offer by dumping her lemonade upon his expensive suit.

  The utter boor.

  “I believe Asherford is looking for you, Ophelia,” Rayne told her friend.

  Ophelia glanced over Rayne’s shoulder, and her expression hardened. “Speak of the devil,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Hurry, let’s find our way to the ladies’ retiring room.”

  “Too late,” Sophronie whispered, pasting a false smile upon her face.

  Ah, so Ophelia had confided in her as well.

  Rayne turned around, prepared to be civil but perhaps not overly warm to Asherford. After all, he’d insulted one of her dearest friends. Her attention fell on the slightly shorter man beside him. Fletcher was tall, but Asherford was taller. Her heart stalled before it resumed beating double time.

  “Good evening, ladies,” Asherford said, nodding.

  Rayne had to admit the men looked dashing with their peacock feather dominos and gleaming cloaks. From the envious looks directed their way by numerous other ladies present, they thought so as well.

  “May I have this dance, Miss Wellbrook?” Fletcher said, extending his hand. His cloak was a magnificent aquamarine shade that did fantastical things to his eyes. Things she had no business noticing.

  Rayne had every intention of refusing him. Not only because wisdom and a bruised heart dictated that was the wisest course of action, but how could she leave Ophelia to Asherford’s mercies?

  She needn’t have worried about her friend.

  Ophelia pasted a brilliant smile upon her face and promptly agreed to dance with Neville Hornbrook. Never mind that the painfully shy and awkward banker hadn’t actually asked Ophelia to dance.

  Before Rayne could comprehend what had happened, Ophelia had towed the beet-faced banker halfway to the dancefloor. Over her shoulder, she shot a rather smug, I’d-rather-dance-with-this-tongue-tied-fool-than-you smile toward Asherford.

  “Miss Wellbrook?” Fletcher’s hand remained outstretched, a mischievous half-smile bending his mouth.

  Rayne was caught, and the rogue well knew it. If she refused to dance with him, she couldn’t dance the rest of the evening. Blast his pigheadedness and his perverse sense of amusement.

  She summoned a smile—it might’ve been a tad bit brittle—and laid her yellow gloved hand upon Fletcher’s palm. The orchestra struck the first chords, and she nearly groaned aloud.

  She hadn’t had the opportunity to glance at her dance card yet, but the unmistakable strains of a waltz began.

  With that same masculine grace that had first snared her attention, Fletcher guided her onto the sanded floor. He took her into his arms, and Rayne blinked back tears as memories of their kisses washed over her.

  “Why must you torment me, Your Grace?” she asked, needing to take control else she would dissolve into a humiliating puddle. “Haven’t you toyed with me enough?”

  God, when Fletcher touched her, she wanted to burrow into him. To inhale his scent and tell him of the love she’d tried to deny. The love she’d never be able to confess now.

  “Lèannan, I would never deliberately hurt ye. Ye are too precious to me.”

  And thunk, there dropped another piece of her already fractured heart at his feet. Yes, she was an utter and complete nitwit.

  Fletcher drew her closer, not scandalously so, but slightly more than was entirely proper. His essence surrounded her, comforting and familiar. He put his mouth near her ear.

  “I sent my mother away yesterday. To Aberdeen. She’ll never have the opportunity to cause ye pain again.”

  What?

  Stumbling, Rayne glanced upward. He easily steadied her and made a skillful turn. For a man his size, he possessed grace and agility.

  “Why? Because of what she said to me?” She puzzled her brow. “Fletcher, she’s your mother. She only wants what is best for you.”

  The words nearly strangled Rayne, but she’d vowed to be kind. Speaking charitably about the Duchess of Kincade so soon after her horrid behavior toward Rayne tested her mettle, however.

  “Nae, she’s only ever cared about herself.” His words came low and hoarse. As if saying them aloud caused him pain.

  He spun her in a circle, and she followed his lead. Never had dancing come so easily. Typically, she was a nervous wreck and spent every moment concentrating on not casting up her accounts on her partner’s glossy shoes.

  Roving her gaze over his face, she tried to memorize each dear contour and angle. His earlier vow to remain in London now seemed impossible with him living next door. She’d return to Fittledale Park rather than torment herself with the knowledge he was just over the garden wall, and yet he might as well be across the ocean.

  Tears stung behind her eyelids, and she lowered her lashes lest he see.

  “Rayne?”

  God, how she adored his brogue and the melodious way her name flowed off his tongue.

  She wouldn’t look up. Couldn’t look into his eyes. He’d see her love for him, and she didn’t think she could bear his pity.

  “Rayne. Look at me.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  It wasn’t until the cool breeze caressed her bare shoulders that she realized he’d whisked them onto the terrace. She gazed about, half-stunned, but relieved to see several other people meandering along the veranda. At least her reputation would remain intact.

  Not so, her heart.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, attempting to tug her hand from his.

  “Tryin’ to apologize and beg yer forgiveness.”

  Sighing, Rayne looked past his broad shoulder into the lantern-lit garden. “What’s there to forgive, Fletcher? I willingly kissed you. You never made any promises.” Somehow, she fashioned a genuine smile. “I’m not angry. Truly, I understand. I’m English and a commoner, to boot.”

  That didn’t mean, however, that she had to like it. But she did understand.

  “Ye dinna understand anythin’, and I shall explain all later. But for now, all ye need to ken is I love ye, lass. Love ye so much, I canna see any future without ye in it. I want to marry ye, Rayne. If ye’ll have me.”

  Blistering tears sprang to her eyes once more, and the veriest morsel of hope took wing, flitting about her chest like a tiny insect. “But I’m English. Your mother said—”

  “I dinna want to marry an Englishwoman like her.”

  At some point, they’d stopped dancing, and he’d maneuvered th
em into a secluded corner.

  “She abandoned my father and her three children eighteen years ago. Her only interest in me, my brother, and my sister is what she can gain from a relationship with us. I could no’ join myself to a woman like that for a lifetime. That is why I dinna want to marry a cold English aristocrat.”

  “Oh.”

  It made perfect sense.

  He’d been afraid. This big, strong, wonderful man had been afraid.

  A roguish but infinitely tender grin arched his mouth at what must’ve been her stupefied expression.

  He brushed his bent forefinger over her cheek. “What say ye, my yellow English rose? Will ye take this rough Scotsman as yer husband? We’ll have our rough moments, I’ve nae doubt, but if I love ye and ye love me…”

  A scowl pulled his midnight brows together.

  “Ye do love me, dinna ye, Rayne?”

  “How can you doubt it? I fell in love with you that first day in your garden.” Standing on her tiptoes, Rayne pulled his mouth down to meet hers, but he resisted her urging.

  “I dinna want a long engagement. Marry me by special license, and we’ll honeymoon in Scotland.”

  “My, but you are in a hurry.”

  “Aye, I dinna want to take a chance of losin’ ye ever again.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into the vee of his strapping legs. The evidence of his affection was quite apparent.

  As his lips brushed hers, Rayne whispered, “How soon can you get a special license?”

  Fletcher’s laugher filled the night air, certain to draw attention.

  And for once, Rayne didn’t care a jot about her reputation.

  Levensyde House

  July 1818

  Holding her three-year-old daughter, Bailey, Rayne stood at the top of the porch observing the tableau before her. A slight breeze ruffled her skirt and her unbound hair. She seldom fashioned the long tresses into a knot. Fletcher preferred she wear her hair down, and there was nothing she loved more than pleasing her husband, except perhaps their children.

  Coatless, his midnight hair gleaming in the sun, Fletcher slowly led the rust-colored Shetland pony around the courtyard. Their four-year-old son, Brixton, giggled and clutched the pony’s creamy mane.