Heart of a Scoundrel (Handful of Hearts Book 4)

by Jenna Jaxon

  Recent heiress, Miss Amanda Sharp, is out in Society for the first time and enjoying the social whirl, especially when she dances her first dance with the handsome Lord Somersby. She’s aware of his bad reputation with ladies, but she’s confident she can lead him down the aisle to the altar without raising a scandal. Headstrong, and determined to reform Lord Somersby, Amanda finds herself in danger of losing more than a hand of cards to the scandalous lord.

  After several months of licking the wounds he received at a disastrous Christmas party, Richard, Lord Somersby, has another wager to win. He must woo and jilt three young ladies in a month’s time in order to win his racing stable before donning the leg shackle of marriage with a duke’s daughter. His third victim is Miss Amanda Sharpe, a refreshingly determined young woman who makes her interest in him well known. It should be child’s play for the villainous Richard to woo her, make her think he’s in love with her, then spurn her. A plan that might work if he can keep his mind on winning rather than on the lady’s entrancing form and fiery spirit.

  Heart of a Scoundrel

  By Jenna Jaxon

  Heart of a Scoundrel

  Jenna Jaxon

  Published by Jenna Jaxon

  Copyright © 2018, Jenna Jaxon

  Edited by Danielle Fine

  Cover art by Danielle Fine

  All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or part in any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Dedication

  For Ella

  My fabulous friend, mentor, and beta reader

  I couldn’t do this without you

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks go to my superb editor, Danielle Fine, whose work with me on this project and all the others in the series, has made me a better writer. A big thank you also, as always, to my expert on all things Regency, Ella Quinn, for your help and suggestions. I am truly blessed in the people who have helped me in this almost ten-year adventure in writing.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  More Works by this Author

  Chapter 1

  Somerset, England

  Early April 1820

  “Why have you not returned to London, Somersby?”

  The dark walls of his father’s study, filled with depressingly large books, threatened to close around Richard, Lord Somersby. From his position in his favorite leather-backed chair, he stared up at his father, the Marquess of Thaxted, his lips twitching with the desire to spout impertinence at his sire. How could Father not realize why he’d languished here in the country for the past five months? Why he’d not wanted to show himself in either Town or country?

  He gestured toward his face. “I would have thought that was obvious, sir.”

  At Christmas, he’d been involved in an altercation with a nothing, a nobody, who’d gotten in a lucky shot and broken his nose. The physician who’d attended him had managed to set the blasted thing so that only a slight ridge on the upper bridge of his nose marred his face. Still, it was noticeable. He certainly noticed it every time he looked in the mirror.

  “Nonsense.” Glass in hand, his father waved away his concerns then poured a sizeable tot of brandy into the cut-crystal tumbler. “Never thought you were one to moan about your appearance, like a girl not in her looks. You’re the heir to a marquessate. Women won’t give a damn what you look like.”

  Perhaps Father spoke from experience. With too broad a brow, sunken eyes, jowly cheeks, and an almost nonexistent chin, the marquess would never be called a handsome man. Yet he’d attracted women all his life, according not only to him, but others as well. He’d had a string of mistresses, from his youth until the present day, and even introduced Richard to a couple of them. Beautiful women who seemed to hang on his every word. Well-paid women, if that mattered. Richard feared it might matter to him.

  “It’s not my appearance.”

  “What then?”

  “That cub, Isley. Gave me a drubbing in front of my friends.” He hadn’t told his father about the girl’s assault on him. That bit would go with him to his grave. Shifting subtly in the chair, he winced. The mere thought of where she’d hit him made him ache. “I’m likely a laughing stock at Brooks’s.”

  “And again I say, nonsense.” Thaxted handed him the glass. “Your friends would hardly have spread such a tale.”

  Friends was likely too sanguine a word for his circle of acquaintances, save Eric Conroy, with whom he’d grown up. The others he had no illusions about. They hung about him for the prestige and largesse he offered, nothing more. Accepting the brandy, he first savored the bouquet then took a swallow and enjoyed the steady burn down his throat. The London Season held no charms for him whatsoever. “Thought I might spend the Season fishing in Scotland instead. Give this little contretemps a chance to die down. I’ll return for the Little Season after the shooting in September.”

  The marquess fixed him with a stern eye. “The last thing I raised is a coward, Somersby. You’ll go to London this week and attend every party, ball, soiree, and musical evening.” Carelessly, his father leaned against the sideboard and raised an eyebrow. “You may take heart that it will be your last.”

  “My last?”

  “I’ve started negotiations with Lord Drummond for his daughter, Lady Edith. You’re to be married at the end of the Season, if her dowry is sufficient. So you’d best kick up your heels while you can. A married man’s got obligations. Can’t be seen sowing wild oats then.”

  Stunned at his father’s casual announcement of his impending nuptials, Richard downed the contents of his glass. Damn, he’d not wanted the leg-shackle quite so quickly. True, he’d been willing at Christmas, but there’d been a wager involved. Anything for a wager. “Was I to have no say in this matter?”

  “Not really.” His father grinned. “Drummond happened to mention a prime piece of land his family owns in Scotland. Perfect estate for shooting. I asked if it was for sale and he said it was to be part of his daughter’s dowry, according to the will of the last Lord Drummond.” The marquess shook his head, his lips twisted in disgust. “Why must these old men make all these damned stipulations in their dotage? Just pass your belongings to the next in line and have done with it.”

  “What if I don’t fancy being married just yet?”

  His father threw back his head and laughed. “Then I cut you out of my will. Oh, not the title or entailed lands, of course. But that’s barely a third of all my holdings.” Eyes gleaming like a snake about to strike, the marquess took a quick sip of brandy. “I’m certain Robert would be most happy to find himself the recipient of my generous nature at last.”

  “I’m sure he would as well.” His brother would be overjoyed to suddenly find himself his father’s favorite. Sighing, Richard set his glass down and rose. “What can you tell me about my future bride? I’ve never met her, that I recollect.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have. She’s just out this year. Bit of a bluestocking, so Drummond says. More bookish than his other children, but that shouldn’t matter to you. If you don’t take to her, she’ll have her books to turn to—after she gives you an heir, mind.” His father raised his glass, mo
re in warning, it seemed, than celebration.

  “Am I then to meet Lady Edith in London?” Best get on with swallowing this bitter pill. “Please don’t say I have to squire her everywhere. If I’m to be taken in the parson’s mousetrap, I jolly well want a bit of fun beforehand.”

  “Of course, my boy. I don’t care if you meet her for the first time at the altar. Just as long as you meet her there.” Father’s smile turned amiable. “I’ll even make your time in London interesting, Somersby.”

  Sensing a sea change, Richard eyed his father, his heart thudding faster in his chest. The man came up with some engaging schemes, he had to admit. “Such as?”

  “A wager.”

  “Ah.” Anticipation of the terms set Richard’s pulse to thrumming. “A wager for…?”

  “Your racing stable, of course.” The marquess poured himself another two fingers of brandy. “You haven’t gone off that, have you?”

  “Not in the least.” Excitement poured through him. A true horse enthusiast, Richard already had a bevy of fine cattle, but a racing stable! It had been that reward that had prompted him to pursue Jenny Crowley this past Christmas, to disastrous ends. Still, the promise of more horses could tempt him to almost anything.

  “Good.” Father finished off his drink. “I think you’ll find my wager is full enough of adventures even for you.” His smile widened into a grin. “I wager you cannot break three girls’ hearts before the ink is dry on Lord Drummond’s settlement papers.”

  “The devil you say!” The wager took Richard aback. He’d attempted to wed one girl at Christmas. Now he must try to seduce three in what was likely a short amount of time. A scoundrel’s paradise to be sure, but that was a tall order just the same.

  “Not up to the wager?” The marquess raised his quizzing glass to examine his son as though he’d never seen him before. “Gads, but I sired a puny whelp.”

  “Hardly.” Confidence straining up within him, Richard took a deep breath and nodded. He could do this. What was wooing a girl, getting her hopes up a bit, then dropping her without a word? Child’s play for him. It wasn’t like he’d never done it before. But this time with an additional pleasure as the outcome. “As you say, it may be just the sport to occupy me for the Season.” Although, he’d best find out how long he had to accomplish his seductions. “When do you believe you and Lord Drummond will reach an accord? I need to plan my strategy.”

  “Good boy.” The warm approval in his father’s tone sent an additional stab of happiness through Richard. All his life he’d tried to emulate the man, fought hard to win his praise. When he’d failed to win the wager at Christmas, his father’s disapproval had been a more devastating loss than the stable. No matter if it took seducing ten young ladies, he’d win this wager and remain his father’s favorite. “The letter I had from Drummond yesterday says he will not be available to attend me here until the second week in May. That gives you approximately four weeks to accomplish your philandering.”

  “How is the veracity of the situation to be determined? You will take my word on it?” Eyebrow raised, Richard waited for a counter-offer. His father wasn’t a fool, after all. He’d want some other means of proof.

  “A letter to you from the lady, attesting to her undying love for you, will suffice.” His father shrugged. “Or in lieu of that, a witness to your seduction and her capitulation.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Richard mulled over the possibility of those stipulations being met. He’d have one week per conquest. The first would be easiest because no one would suspect. The second lady also might not be aware of his intentions if he managed to move quickly from one to the other. The third, however, would be the trickiest. She’d likely be forewarned by the time he got to her. Still, he did have a charming manner when he put himself forward. Also, an older lady perhaps, one who might be desperate enough in her third Season to give him a chance. Yes, he’d have just enough time to complete his conquests before Drummond arrived here at Thaxted Manor. “Done, then.”

  “Splendid, my boy.” His father clapped him on the back. “Knew you couldn’t resist a wager. Excellent. So off you go.”

  “Indeed, I shall set out at first light and be in London in time for dinner.”

  “Good show, Somersby.” Father gripped his shoulder and let him go. “I’ll be looking forward to report of your first conquest.”

  With a nod of dismissal, the marquess sat down behind his desk and drew out a sheaf of papers.

  Richard headed out the door, a jauntier lift to his step than when he’d entered the room. He’d show the ton that the incident at Christmas was a fluke. He’d seduce three of its daughters, win his wager, and gain the stable of horses he’d wanted for years. And have some fun into the bargain. As he turned the corner and headed for the staircase to his room, he began to whistle.

  * * * *

  London, May 5, 1820

  Raising up on the balls of his feet, Richard gazed about at Lady Hamilton’s guests, trying to curb the self-satisfied smile on his lips. Tonight would see the successful completion of his wager with his father, so he couldn’t really be blamed for smirking a bit, could he? The winning of this wager had been both vastly enjoyable and remarkably easy.

  “Bit of the canary poking from your lips, old man?” His long-time friend Eric Conroy had strolled up to join him in overseeing the couples forming for the second set of the evening.

  “A feather or two, perhaps.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly put paid to all those rumors that said you’d turned tail after the unfortunate events at Marbury’s last Christmas.” Shaking his head, Eric gazed at Richard in stark admiration. “I have to admit, Somersby, I didn’t believe we’d see you here this Season. And certainly not cutting a swath through the Season’s beauties.”

  “A man will forget all slights once he sets his sights on the prize.” The vision of his racing stable materialized easily, as it did so often these days. He lay awake nights counting thoroughbred noses in lieu of sheep.

  “You get a prize for breaking girls’ hearts?” Eric looked at him askance, but Richard continued to smile.

  “It’s actually a wager of sorts.”

  “Lord, Richard. I’d have thought after last time—”

  “That was a freakish turn of bad luck,” Richard snapped, goaded out of his good mood. “I always win whatever I wager on, Miss Crowley notwithstanding. As I intend to prove tonight.”

  A flicker of unease lit Eric’s eyes. “Tonight? Do you plan to ruin a lady here at the ball?” He clutched Richard’s arm. “Lady Hamilton will have your guts for garters.”

  “I think not.” Eric had such a tendency to panic. He shook off his friend’s hand. Thank Christ one of them had a steady head when it came to ruthlessly carrying out a plan. That difference had earned him, and not Eric, the scandalous reputation he so enjoyed. Good mood restored, Richard resumed his perusal of the dance floor. “She’ll likely not know what I’m about until it’s a fait accompli. And no, I have no idea to ruin the lady. Merely to elicit a confession from her.”

  “A confession of what? And from whom?”

  “Of Lady Eleanor Harrup’s undying love for me.”

  A whoop of laughter from Eric caused half the ballroom to stop and turn toward them.

  Richard grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and propelled him toward the French doors. “If you insist on thwarting my plans, Eric, I shall have to either plant you a facer or land a good swift kick to your backside.” A quick survey showed Lady Hamilton’s guests had taken the disturbance in their stride—likely having seen the culprit was Eric, they’d chosen to ignore it completely.

  “Sorry, old chap.” Eric shrugged out of Richard’s grasp and adjusted his ensemble, tugging on the bottom of his waistcoat then twitching his shoulders until the coat once again lay correctly over his large frame. “You can’t expect a chap to ignore such a faradiddle when you tell it with a straight face.”

  “It’s no damned hum.” With a q
uick gaze about them, Richard satisfied himself again that no one paid them any mind. “My father’s offered a racing stable again, if I can break several ladies’ hearts before he’s betrothed me to Lady Edith Fox-Morton.”

  “You’re to marry the Duke of Drummond’s daughter?” Eyes wide, Eric stepped back, gawking at Richard as though he’d grown two heads.

  “Not so loudly, chucklehead. You’ll spook my quarry.” Another glance about the room for the petite brunette proved fruitless. “What do you know of Lady Edith? All Father could tell me was she was just out and decidedly bookish.” Richard pursed his lips in distaste. Two qualities he did not find attractive in a woman. “Please tell me she’s at least tolerably attractive.”

  “Depends on whether you like tall redheads with bran all over their faces.” Attempting to control a smile, Eric turned slightly away and cleared his throat.

  “How tall?” God, but it would be too singular to have a wife tower over one.

  “If she raises up on her toes, she’ll be able to stare you in the eyes.”

  “Insufferable.” He’d make sure they never stood side by side unless absolutely necessary. “Does she have any conversation that did not come from a book?”

  “When we met two weeks ago, she spoke largely of the charity work she does with orphans in London. Her mother started her interest in that cause, I believe. Will that suffice as an alternative to the history of the Austrian empire, which I gather is her favorite topic of conversation?” The hilarity in Eric’s tone of voice made Richard want to strangle him, friend or no friend.

  “Plague take it.” Father was shackling him to the last woman in the world he’d wish to marry. Best not dwell on that at the moment. Better to focus on the matter at hand—winning his stable. “Have you seen Lady Eleanor here tonight? I’ve had the devil’s own time locating her all evening.” He’d made the assignation with the youngest daughter of the Earl of Gaunt two nights ago. A sillier chit had never lived, but all the better for him to sweep her off her feet and convince her he was desperately in love with her. Young ladies in their second or third Season were so much easier to snare.