Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  Ire flared in her bright eyes and color flushed her cheeks.

  God, she was absolutely glorious when riled.

  “This is more about revenge and retribution than it is about restoring Hartfordshire Court to your family.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “You’ve taken up someone else’s offense as your own, and while part of me understands your anger, the solution you’ve arrived at is ludicrous.”

  “Gabby—”

  Making a curt gesture with her hand, she scowled. “Have you truly convinced yourself that by forcing me to marry you, you’re being benevolent? Everything you’ve suggested can be done without us resorting to nuptials. It seems you intend to be as cruel as your father and grandfather,” she scoffed. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

  Her accusation stinging, he leveled her a thunderous scowl. Wasn’t she taking up her grandfather’s cause? But there was a tangible difference. She protected the living, whilst he wanted to exonerate the dead.

  She gave a short, caustic, entirely humorless laugh, the harsh sound lancing his soul. “And to think, more fool me, at one time I believed myself enamored of you.”

  The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.

  More ill-timed Shakespearian wisdom?

  The next thing he knew, he’d start recalling Bible verses, which would, in truth, not be so very astonishing as one of his overly zealous tutor, Mr. Fogart, had made Max write verses for the merest infraction. For instance, substituting molasses for ink or flavoring the lemonade with vinegar. He’d been made to write, “The student is not above the teacher” from Luke, no less than five hundred times for placing ants in the man’s bed.

  At one time, I believed myself enamored of you.

  Of all the things she just said, the truth, she’d unhesitatingly hurled at him, that bit was what reverberated in his mind. It stirred what he heartily hoped was not doubt or misgivings at this late juncture.

  Arms folded in a defensive posture, she tilted her head. The breeze caught the pink ribbons of her bonnet and sent them fluttering. “Tell me, Maxwell. Why me and not Ophelia?”

  “I think, chérie, you already know the answer to that.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she snapped, giving his shoulder a hard punch. “And I do not know the answer, else I wouldn’t have asked. Please do enlighten me. I cannot wait to hear what rubbish you concoct.” She really was a tart-mouthed minx. Most excellent. Such fortitude would be useful and sustain her going forward.

  “There’s been a powerful attraction between us since we first met, Gabriella. Tell me it doesn’t call to you as it does me.”

  She snorted, loudly and indelicately. “Ballocks, you vain popinjay.”

  Max checked a delighted chuckle. She’d truly kick up a fuss if he dared laugh at her frustration.

  “God knows, I’ve tried to fight it, resist the draw.” He drummed long square-tipped fingers atop his thigh. “Especially when I learned of your grandfather’s treachery.” Shrugging again, he gathered the reins. “I know you won’t believe this, and I don’t expect you to, but I rather think we would march along well. I had intended to call upon your grandfather to ask if I might pay my addresses before this ugliness came to light.”

  Not that old Breckensole would’ve consented with the history Max now knew existed between the families.

  For once at a loss for words, she simply stared. Inhaling a ragged breath, she touched the shoulder she’d just clobbered. A thrill bolted through him. Even now, when he was at his worst, when he’d delivered such ugly information to her, the merest touch sent his lust soaring.

  “Maxwell, you don’t have to do this. I’m sure we can come to another solution.” Looking lost, she glanced around, blinking almost as if surprised to see where she was. “My family can… we can move. Go somewhere else.”

  No. I don’t want you to leave.

  He’d considered that option for all of one second before dismissing the idea. It wouldn’t deliver the outcome he desired. “Where? And live on what? You have no source of income. Do you have relatives you might impose upon?”

  “No.”

  The single syllable said much. The Breckensoles had nowhere to turn. No place to go. No one to take them in. He made an I-suspected-as-much-sound in the back of his throat.

  “The way I see it, there are three options.” He lifted his forefinger. “I take your grandfather to court for fraud, blackmail, and tax evasion. He’ll spend the remainder of his life in prison, and you, your sister, and your ailing grandmother would be left to deal with the ensuing disgrace and would end up on the street.”

  She notched her chin upward, clearly not the least impressed with her first choice. “The other options?”

  He held up a second finger. “Your grandfather agrees to destroy the deed of sale, pays monthly rents, and repays the taxes that the dukedom has paid on his behalf for decades. Mind you, we’re talking thousands of pounds.” He steeled his facial features and his emotions against her tiny, distressed gasp. “We both know he doesn’t have those kinds of funds nor can he lay his hands on them.”

  No friends or family stood in the eaves ready to lend him a hand, a factor that played to Max’s advantage.

  He raised his ring finger. “Or three—”

  “I marry you,” she said very softly, her voice a mere whisper. “And my grandfather dowers me with Hartfordshire Court. Which, you must own, is just plain stupid since you claim the estate belongs to you anyway.”

  “It saves a great deal of complication and public scandal, which I’d prefer to avoid,” he said. “I can only presume you would as well for yourself and your family’s sake.”

  The silence lengthened, stretching out before them, tense and uncompromising. Finally, she released a wispy sigh. “You’ll allow my family to live at Hartfordshire without paying rents? No taxes due? No possibility of eviction?” She flicked three of her fingers up.

  Then a fourth levered upward

  The little vixen. Had to outdo him, didn’t she?

  “And my grandfather continues grazing his cattle on the property without any fee or a partial commission to you when they are sold? And…”

  Her thumb sprang up.

  Five bloody conditions? Damn, but he’d underestimated her negotiating skills.

  Her chin notched skyward another inch. “You’ll also provide Ophelia a ten-thousand-pound dowry.”

  Astonishment jerked Max’s head up, but after a moment of staring into her wounded gaze, nearly drowning in the fathomless depths, he gave a terse nod.

  She’d added terms he hadn’t considered and not a single request had been for herself.

  Nonetheless, he had no qualms with her provisions. If it brought her peace of mind and helped her to feel like she had a measure of control, so be it.

  “As you very well know, you could grant every one of those conditions now if you wished to. Not the dowry for Ophelia of course, but all of the rest.” Though her face was alabaster pale, she met his gaze unflinchingly.

  By God, she was brave. A remarkable woman, indeed.

  “I could. But Harold Breckensole doesn’t deserve that kind of grace or forgiveness. And knowing one of his beloved granddaughters had to sacrifice herself, because of his selfishness, will eat away at him for the rest of his days.” He couldn’t prevent the rancor edging each clipped word.

  Just as losing Grandmother had gnawed at Grandfather.

  “You are a cruel man, Maxwell.” Something akin to profound disappointment along with resignation and no small amount of resentment shone in Gabriella’s eyes. “You would do well to remember, that someday, you will stand before God, and you’ll be judged as harshly as you have judged others. You’d best pray the day never comes that you need forgiveness.”

  Too late.

  Max flexed his jaw. Yes, he was cruel. He’d learned about cruelty firsthand. As for the other? Well, wasn’t it true that those who’d committed wrongs were usually the f
irst to demand forgiveness and often quoted scripture to enhance their manipulation? He suspected though, he might very well end up as miserable as his sire and grandsire.

  “Which is it to be, Gabriella?” Hands on the reins, he spared her a short glance from the side of his eye. “The choice is yours.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s never been mine.” She gave a fragile, broken laugh. “I shall grow to hate you. You know that, don’t you? Anything that may have turned into warmth or affection, any desire I may now have for you, bitterness and resentment will eventually corrode into loathing. If you insist upon this path, are you prepared for a life every bit as miserable as that of your father’s and your grandfather’s?”

  “I know what I’m doing,” he bit out, not at all pleased to have his thoughts read and vocalized.

  She pressed on, relentless in her judgment. “You’re making me pay the penalty for a crime that wasn’t mine. My only sin is being Harold Breckensole’s granddaughter. Something I have no control over whatsoever. You, however, do have a choice whether you choose to forgive or carry a grudge. I’m not saying you and yours weren’t wronged, or that if my grandfather is guilty, there shouldn’t be recompense, but this…”

  “It is what a duke would do. What he does for his duchy and family,” Max ground out.

  She flicked a hand between them. “I vow you will come to regret it, and if this is what a duke would do, then I am very much glad I was born a commoner.”

  They’d reached the road, and the gig jostled her against him as the vehicle crested the low embankment. They rode in strained silence until the bridge came into view, and Max slowed Aphrodite once more. He turned to look straight into Gabriella’s eyes, the anguish there, the accusation and condemnation, stabbing him to his core like a rusty two-sided sword.

  Yet, it wasn’t enough to put aside the vengeance that had burned inside him for months. How could he just let it go? Forgive the offense? The treachery? A better man might be able to, but then again, he’d never claimed to be a good man. Dutiful, loyal, well-mannered, the epitome of haut ton refinement, honest, and on occasion given to mirth and benevolence.

  But never good.

  “What’s it to be then, Gabriella?” He used the same tone he used to soothe a skittish horse. “Which of the three do you choose, because as you said the sin is not yours? So you will make this decision. Not me. Not your grandfather or your grandmother or your sister. You.”

  Snorting, she shook her head, her disgust palpable. “As if any of them have appeal.” Her eyes drifted closed for a moment, and she released a ragged sigh, her cheeks puffing out slightly with the exhalation. “You’ve given me no alternative, and you well know that. Since I must pick, as you knew I would, I select the third option.”

  Max gave a curt nod, at once exalting in the small victory and also grieving for the wound he’d inflicted on this gentlewoman. She wasn’t deserving of this. She was a pawn and he’d used her unforgivably for vengeance. This doublemindedness would likely drive him mad. He hopped to the ground and allowed himself a moment to bring his chaotic thoughts under control before striding to her side and lifting his arms to help her down.

  She stared at his hands, indecision whisking across her refined features. He had no doubt she wanted to tell him to go to the devil—was actually surprised she already hadn’t.

  Still, they would be man and wife. And damn it all, he’d treat her with the dignity and respect a duchess deserved, because that’s what a duke did, as he’d told her. A duke took care of his dukedom. His family. Of the people entrusted to his care. Of his lands, village, tenants, and servants, and God knew the Pennington Duchy had long, long been neglected.

  Dukes don’t destroy young women’s hopes and futures.

  At last, she permitted him to assist her from the conveyance. Head held high, and shoulders squared, she met his gaze directly. “I’ll explain to my family what has occurred. You may come for dinner at seven.”

  He lifted his hat and canted his head in a brief bow. “I shall be there.”

  “But know this, Your Grace.”

  He didn’t miss the deliberate cool politeness she’d reverted to.

  “I shall never come to your bed willingly. Never. You’ll have to force me each and every time we copulate if you want your heirs.” A miserable smile pulled her soft mouth upward. “I wonder, in a decade or two, if you’ll still think your revenge was worth it.”

  Hell, he was beginning to doubt it even now. Though he knew it was her anger speaking, he could no more violate his sweet Gabriella than pluck the sun from the sky or dam the ocean. Seduction, though… Her kisses told him, she desired him too. “Gabriella?” He touched her cheek, but she flinched away, her expression hard and gaze frosty.

  “I’ll not succumb to your seductive wiles anymore, Duke.”

  She meant it. The magical kisses they’d shared would be the only affection he’d ever receive from her. From anyone. She spun on her heel and took several strides before swinging back to face him, utter devastation ravaging her lovely features.

  “I could have loved you, Maxwell,” she said on a sob before running down the drive.

  Tears pricked his eyes.

  I could have loved you too, my darling Gabby.

  One glimpse of Gabriella’s face when she returned from her outing with the Duke of Pennington, and Ophelia dragged her to her bedchamber. With a swift glance up and down the corridor, she closed the door then spun to face her twin, demanding an explanation.

  “Gabby, whatever has happened? You were gone for nearly two hours, and you appear as if… Well… I’m not certain exactly what you look like except there is a haunted glint in your eyes that frightens me.” Three neat lines appeared on her forehead, and she wrinkled her nose, staring pointedly at Gabriella’s empty hands. “And where are your sketch pad and pencils?”

  “Botheration.” Gabriella groaned as she untied her bonnet wishing she might speak the foul oath on the tip of her tongue. “I left them in the duke’s gig.”

  Ophelia stopped fussing with the fringe of the pillow she’d picked up and went poker stiff. “Perhaps you should explain from the beginning, because I believe I just heard you say, your drawing supplies were in the duke’s gig. I presume you refer to the Duke of Pennington?”

  Something in Gabriella’s expression must’ve given her away for Ophelia tossed aside the pillow and said, “Yes, just as I presumed. But you told me you were going for a walk and to sketch, and you do not, in general, dissemble.”

  “I lied.” No sense in prevaricating about it. She had, and from her sister’s astonished expression, she’d deduced more was afoot. No one could ever mistake Ophelia for a bacon brain. “But I assure you, dearest, I had an exceptionally good reason for doing so.”

  Trying to save her family from utter ruin and a madman’s vengeance. She’d failed. No, not entirely, she hadn’t. She’d protected her family, but at a cost most dear.

  Gabriella dumped the bonnet on her dressing table, avoiding glancing in the mirror as she reached to unfasten her spencer. “How is your headache? Aren’t you to leave for Jessica’s soon?”

  “My headache is gone, but dear Jessica has a megrim now,” Ophelia said. “A note came while you were out. We’ve rescheduled for next week.” Impatience fairly radiating off her, and arms akimbo, Ophelia drummed her fingertips on her hips. “What’s this explanation for lying, for I’ve never known you to flat out fib before?”

  More of the duke’s unsavory influence.

  Gabriella was aware turmoil roiled in her eyes and also that her lips might be the merest bit rosy from that extraordinary kiss. Hopefully, her sister would credit her countenance to the blustery weather.

  After removing her spencer and gloves, she sank onto the mattress, completely drained. Not surprising since her life had just been toppled teapot handle over spout. Once she’d reconciled herself to what she must do, a peculiar sort of peace had enveloped her. Rather, a numbness that enabled her to function in a
sort of hazy, incredulous cloud.

  As succinctly as possible, she shared the dismal tale, somewhat amazed at her ability to do so without collapsing into a weeping blob of hysteria. She judiciously omitted the part about the scintillating kisses. Of everything that had occurred, this last kiss made the least sense. How could she have responded so wantonly? How could she have permitted a knave of his caliber such liberties?

  Not fair, her conscience scolded. She couldn’t place all the blame for that intimate interlude on his shoulders. Not when their previous kisses had made her eager—hungry—for his embrace. She’d enjoyed the experience far too much, and as furious as she presently was with him, feared her declaration about sharing a bed might’ve been incensed bluster. She’d all but melted into his arms with little provocation.

  True, but that was before he’d shown his hand, and she’d seen what an immoral lout he truly was. She mightn’t have any control over these circumstances, but she could withhold her affection and passion. “So, you see, Fee Fee, there’s naught else to be done but for me to wed the duke.”

  Her twin’s jaw dropped open, and her hazel eyes so like Gabriella’s rounded in incredulity before the irises almost disappeared as she narrowed her eyes into wrathful slits.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God! The churl. The fiend. The…the…reprehensible, scapegracing bastard.” Ophelia’s voice jumped an octave on the last word, and she, too, plopped unceremoniously onto the bed. “Gabby, you cannot—simply cannot!—marry Pennington under these wretched circumstances. Why, it amounts to nothing short of extortion.”

  It did indeed. And in Gabriella’s mind, that made Maxwell no better than Grandpapa. Worse, for she held no affection for the duke. Keep telling yourself that and perchance you’ll come to believe it. Teeth clamped until they ached, she squashed the intrusive thought. She wasn’t one to mistake feminine lust and curiosity for something more meaningful.