Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

Before she could object, he grasped her narrow waist, his hands almost spanning the circumference, and lifted her onto the horse’s back, both of her svelte legs dangling over the near side.

  Through his gloves, his palms burned from the intimate contact. He might’ve let his hands linger an instant longer than was completely necessary. Too bad he couldn’t encourage her to ride astride. On second thought, that was a bloody awful notion. He’d explode in his pantaloons if he had to watch those creamy thighs flex and ripple as they gripped Balor.

  Giving him a fuming glare, she clutched Balor’s mane, and before she could slip to the ground, Max leapt into the saddle behind her. Securing her firmly around her slim waist, he lowered his mouth near her ear.

  “Don’t be foolish, Gabriella. We have but the one horse, and you’re wearing slippers. I shall not leave you here to await your coachman. The miscreants who stole your team could very well return.” Not likely, but not impossible either. “As much as you dislike me, I am a gentleman, and I shall see you safely home.”

  She grunted her displeasure and jerked away, in the process bumping his already sensitized groin. He stifled a groan. It was going to prove to be one bloody uncomfortable ride.

  Bowing her head in what he could only assume was resignation, she muttered, “I haven’t given you leave to use my Christian name, and neither am I fool enough to throw myself from a horse, Your Grace.”

  “I don’t believe you a fool at all, chérie.”

  She stiffened before elbowing him hard in the stomach.

  “Oomph,” he grunted, not daring to rub the offended flesh, else she slip loose, but he took the opportunity to lurch forward and brush his lips across one dainty ear. Tit for tat, chérie.

  “I am not now, nor will I ever be your sweetheart, you buffoon,” she finished rather breathlessly.

  We shall see, sweet Gabriella. We shall see.

  A stupid grin slashed Max’s mouth upward. He’d felt the tremor running through her, recognized the subtle shudder for what it was. Desire. For all of Miss Gabriella Breckensole’s protestations of dislike for him, her young body said something much, much different. And he could, and would, use that to his advantage.

  Inordinately pleased by the discovery, with a click of his tongue and a nudge to Balor’s sides, he directed his sturdy black toward Hartfordshire Court. “Walk on.”

  Stick straight and just as inflexible, Gabriella rode before him, doing her utmost to keep her behind—any part of her body for that matter—from brushing his.

  “Miss Breckensole, you can relax against me. Upon my word, I promise to act the perfect gentleman.”

  A distinctly unladylike snort met his declaration. “And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

  He’d much prefer to address her as Gabriella or chérie, enjoying the way the syllables rolled off his tongue, but he wouldn’t put it past her to leap to the ground just to prove her point.

  Chin tucked, he glowered at the bonnet hiding her luxurious, rich honey-brown hair threaded with golden ribbons from his appreciative gaze. He gave her waist a little prod, and she jumped, rearing her head back and smacking him solidly in the jaw.

  That would bruise, he’d be bound.

  “It’s two miles to Hartfordshire.” He nudged her once more. “Relax.”

  She acted as if she’d sooner ride bald and bare-ass-naked through Hyde Park than allow any part of her body to touch him. Her rejection shouldn’t rankle, but it did. And while Max didn’t consider himself a rapscallion per se, he wasn’t a stranger to the joys of a woman’s form or the pleasures that could be found with a willing bed partner.

  He’d also evaded his fair share of huntresses in full cry, their title-hungry mamas, directing their eager daughter’s every move as they tried to snare a duke. Tried to trap him, to be exact. There hadn’t been a ball, soiree, assembly, picnic, or rout that he hadn’t been eyed like a prize stallion by debutantes, spinsters, wallflowers, heiresses, and the occasional widow too.

  He held no illusions of marital bliss. His parents’ union had been less than idyllic.

  Of their own volition, his lips kicked up into a sardonic smirk.

  But Max’s grandfather had adored his grandmother. So much so that after she died, he’d moved the household to London and refused to stay at Chartworth Hall. Grandfather had been an empty shell of a man, given to too much drink, going days on end without bathing or dressing. And in the end, he took his own life, because he couldn’t bear living without his beloved wife.

  If that was love, Max could well do without the castrating emotion.

  It was his turn to snort, and Gabriella sent him a puzzled, sideways look.

  Nevertheless, her aversion to him exasperated. He was the highly sought-after Duke of Pennington. Known for his wit and jovial temperament. His vices were few: a fine cognac or whisky, the occasional cheroot, and superior horseflesh. He didn’t keep a mistress—not for the lack of offers—and he was honest and fair; judiciously so most of the time.

  And yet, the minx grudgingly riding before him couldn’t abide him. Mayhap that was why he found her so intriguing. No, if he were honest with himself, he’d found her remarkable, too remarkable, before she’d turned her icy disdain upon him. He gave a slight shake of his head, reining in his wayward musings. It mattered not.

  She would be his bride and the dowry he’d insist upon was Hartfordshire Court. Nothing else would do. He had no compunction about resorting to extreme measures. His own version of blackmail, if need be. Nothing and no one kept him from something once he’d set his mind to it.

  Her grandfather was responsible for Max’s grandmother’s and grandfather’s deaths. Even Father’s, though he conceded, that was a bit of a stretch. His father’s tendency to drink and gamble to excess, as well as his less than discriminating taste in the women he took to bed had been his downfall. He’d tried to hire a strumpet already engaged with a ship’s captain. There’d been a fight and the captain had stabbed the seventh duke in the stomach. The wound had grown putrid, the infection spread, and he’d died a horrifying death.

  Breckensole would pay.

  Gabriella made a little noise—likely involuntary. No doubt her thoughts also tumbled about in her head. Her parents were dead as well. He wracked his brain, trying to remember how old the twins were when they came to live with their grandparents. He’d been at Eton by then.

  Recalling her puckered expression at the Christmastide dinner before she swiftly assumed the bland mien she presented to him when she’d found herself seated beside him, a silent chuckle shook his chest. Their hostess, the Duchess of Sutcliffe, might have served vermin in white sauce for all the attention Gabriella had paid to the food that evening. Her ability to answer his questions with clipped one-word responses and to resolutely direct her attention to her other dinner partner surely had to be a feat worthy of recognition.

  Why, he supposed he ought to be flattered she’d actually strung more than two words together in conversation with him in the village and since he’d come upon her this afternoon.

  Given Max was hell-bent on having her home returned to his family, he had no business—none whatsoever—entertaining this perverse interest in her. And yet the more she resisted him, the more she disdained his presence, ignored the tipping of his hat or the extending of his elbow, the more captivated he became. That either made him dicked in the nob, or…

  By God, he wasn’t sure what that made him.

  Stupid? Imbecilic? Pathetic? A predator?

  That disagreeable thought stuck fast in his craw, mostly due to the degree of truth in the ugly acknowledgement. It gave him a sour taste in his mouth. Nonetheless, he must remain rational at all costs. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions become entangled even if she was to become his duchess and the mother of his heir and spare. He’d permit his lust for her free rein, but never anything more.

  As much to catch another whiff of her unique perfume as to spare her the sore muscles she would endure tomorrow if she continued hold
ing her unnatural posture, he leaned into her slender back, and pressing one palm into her middle urged her against him. “I said relax,” he breathed into her ear.

  “Are you always such an arrogant bully?” Even as she muttered the words, a ragged almost wistful sigh juddered her shoulders, and she sank into his chest.

  Most women of his acquaintance would’ve dissolved into histrionics or tears had they been forced to huddle in the forest and witness their possessions destroyed and horses stolen. Not to mention deigning to relieve themselves in those same woods. Not Miss Gabriella Breckensole. She refused to show weakness to anyone.

  That was one of the things he most admired about her. Her stubbornness. Her independence. Her I-don’t-need-your-help-I-can-do-it-myself bravado. The almost intractable child-like attitude that lit a spark in her eyes and bent her lips into an endearing, mulish slant. It was also what would make his task more difficult.

  In the beginning, she might resent their marriage, but with her keen wit and intellect, she’d make an extraordinary duchess. He was confident of the fact. Their desire was mutual, and that was nothing to scoff at. Even if they never claimed the love his grandparents had.

  After stumbling upon his grandfather’s journal in the study a few months ago, Max had sworn an oath to avenge him. He’d replaced the ancient, scarred monstrosity of a desk with a smaller one. Whilst the four hirelings labored to lift the old piece, a hidden drawer had popped open, revealing the leather-bound book.

  The first entry that had leapt out at him—had burned in his mind since.

  August 1744

  I told Margaret that Hartfordshire Court was sold. How she sobbed when I confessed I’d been forced to sell her childhood home to Harold Breckensole.

  The rotter blackmailed me into selling it. He’d vowed he’d have his revenge on me, because he fancied a little tart who climbed into my bed, and now he has. The lying bastard claims he caught me cheating at cards. The bloody sot even went so far as to enlist those insolent pups up from university, Wakefield and Garrison, to act as witnesses. Those two bounders will do anything for a drink, a whore, and a few pounds.

  The cards were marked, but not by me. Breckensole must have marked them and then framed me. I cannot prove it, and when he threatened to make the disgrace public, I feared what the scandal and shunning would do to Margaret. Feared she’d quicken early again. And so, in desperation, I agreed to his damnable terms. I couldn’t risk her miscarrying yet another heir.

  My heir must come before all else. He must. The ducal lineage must continue.

  Breckensole’s bloody terms included a legal bill of sale and a contract between us that no one could ever know about the marked cards. He thinks he’s been so clever. He’s the victor for now, but someday, his scheme will come back to bite him in the arse. I’ve made sure of it.

  I only agreed to his extortion for my heir’s sake. Margaret’s losing three babes in as many years has made me a mad man. Her health is frail and grows more so. She weeps incessantly. That is enough to drive me madder still. I should have married a woman with a stronger constitution, but how does any man know his wife’s womb will fail?

  While Margaret was with child, she couldn’t know I’d sold Hartfordshire Court, so I waited six months until I was sure our son would live.

  At long last I have my heir.

  Only a few short, terse entries followed, two of which stuck in Max’s mind:

  Reverend Michael Shaw was killed in a duel.

  Egads, what could a reverend have done to find himself challenged to an affair of honor? Preached on adultery? Bigamy? Helped himself to the tithes?

  The last entry sent a queer chill up his spine.

  Margaret is dead. She was with child.

  And Breckensole was to blame, damn his covetous soul to hell. Well, not the particular entry about the reverend, but the rest could be laid at his feet.

  The hushed whisper he’d heard once as a child that his grandmother had flung herself down the stairs had been nothing more than gossip from the lower orders, his father had insisted. His own mother had died within two years of giving birth to him, and he had no memory of her except for woeful, nondescript brown eyes in a plump, plain face.

  From beneath half-closed eyelids, Max considered Gabriella. Her slim nape and sloping shoulders, the dip of her slender waist and her hips that flared out into luscious curves. Curves he itched to run his hands over.

  Yes, she was far better than the simpering misses he was accustomed to having hanging on his arm, batting their eyelashes, and incapable of stringing an intelligent sentence together let alone retrieving their own handkerchief or fan from the floor.

  He’d rip his hair out by the roots and run screaming from the room if forced to endure another inane conversation about the weather, who was seen riding with whom in Hyde Park, or the latest on dit in the gossip rags.

  Only their breathing and the rhythmic clip-clopping of Balor’s hooves punctuating the peaceful evening stillness, Max and Gabriella rode for several minutes. Unfortunately, no moon illuminated their way, although an occasional brave star peeked from amongst the cloud-ridden sky.

  He wasn’t concerned, however. Many were the times he’d traveled this road with the heavens darker than this. His estate lay little more than a half mile beyond Hartfordshire Court. Even decades after that bounder Breckensole had cheated Max’s grandfather of the manor and grounds, he refused to refer to the estate as Breckensole’s.

  “Gabriella?” he put forth, even as his instinct warned him to stop.

  “Hmm?” she murmured sleepily as she half-turned her head to look into his eyes. Sloe-eyed, her face softened by fatigue and her guard down, her earlier hostility had disappeared and something indefinable held him in thrall.

  Another peculiar tightening contracted his ribs.

  Why did she of all women have to affect him thusly? The granddaughter of his grandfather’s nemesis and by extension, his as well?

  He couldn’t see her expression clearly in the inky blackness, and his usual confidence wobbled for a moment. Grazing his knuckles along her silky jaw, he asked softly, “What have I done to offend you?”

  Darkness hid the blush blooming across Gabriella’s face at the duke’s intimate touch upon her skin. For God help her, the harsh retort hovering on the tip of her tongue evaporated, and—how could it possibly be? —she yearned to press her cheek into his gloved hand.

  She blamed fear, hunger, and worry about her grandfather’s reaction. Yes, of course, that’s it. Her anxiety and fretting caused her to harbor such uncharacteristic, fanciful notions. Certainly not a desire to have the duke caress her.

  But how should she answer his question?

  It would be pure foolishness to make him aware she knew about his dastardly scheme to reclaim Hartfordshire Court. Fine, mayhap she didn’t precisely know what that plot was or how the duke planned to enact it, but she did know he intended to do that very thing.

  “Help. Help.”

  The weak cry saved her from having to answer the duke’s prying query. Straightening, straining her eyes, she made out the shadowy rocky contours of the arched stone bridge.

  “Help me, please. I’m down here, on the embankment.”

  As the plea echoed through the darkness once more, the duke slowed his powerful horse. His muscular body taut, Pennington brushed against Gabriella’s back as he pulled upright.

  “Jackson,” she breathed, clutching the duke’s forearm and twisting to catch his gaze. Or at least she tried to. In the dim light, she could only make out the edges of his hewn features. “That’s my coachman. I know his voice. He must be hurt.”

  That was why he hadn’t returned.

  With a short nod—at least she thought the duke nodded. The darkness made it so very difficult to tell—he said, “Stay here. I’ll check on his condition.”

  As soon as he slipped from the saddle and ventured down the embankment, she rolled onto her stomach and slid from the horse as well. She hurr
ied over to the bridge, and one hand holding the rough, rocky edge, leaned over. Only obscure shadowy shapes met her scrutiny. Curses. Why couldn’t there have been a moon tonight? They hadn’t even the convenience of the coach lamp to light the area.

  “Jackson, it’s Miss Gabriella. Are you hurt?”

  A sharp oath met her ears. “Miss Breckensole, I told you to remain on my horse.” Flint-like annoyance accented each short syllable the duke rasped.

  Yes, he had, and she’d chosen to disregard his directive. He might be accustomed to having his every wish promptly granted, but he wasted his breath ordering her about.

  “Your Grace, as I am not your servant, hireling or wife, I don’t feel obliged to obey your commands. Most particularly when Jackson is a member of my household.” Her words rang every bit as pompous and harsh in the quiet of the night, and immediate chagrin for her churlishness sluiced her. She refused to become a harpy, even if he did vex her to next December and beyond.

  The duke had been nothing but kind, helpful, and gentlemanly.

  She could almost like this considerate man. If only… If only. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, as Grandpapa was wont to quote.

  “Jackson, are you badly hurt?” she called, regret softening her voice.

  A loud, pain-filled groan met her question. “I fear my leg’s broken, miss.”

  She sucked in an abrupt breath. If the duke hadn’t come along when he had… Hanging farther over the bridge’s side, she squinted at the two indistinguishable men below. “However did you end up down there?”

  “I only meant to have myself a drink of water, but the ground gave way, and I tumbled,” Jackson answered. “I’m sorry, Miss Breckensole.”

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Gabriella assured him.

  However, Grandpapa would chew nails at another unexpected expense, for the servants’ care fell to him. A new, most unpleasant, thought struck her. Her grandparents and Ophelia would be frantic that she hadn’t returned from Colechester yet. Even as the truth crossed her mind, the rumble of an approaching conveyance rent the night air, overwhelming the crickets’ chirps and frogs’ croaking.