Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  But the Breckensoles would suffer tremendously if he persisted. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted?

  Not anymore. Gabriella’s happiness mattered more than all else.

  More than Father? Grandfather? Revenge?

  He chuckled, lifting his face to the sky. Yes. Hell, yes! A thousand times more.

  She was all that was good and decent and wonderful. Her radiant smile lit the room and shadows descended, cloying and heavy, upon his soul when she departed his presence. Could this, whatever this unfamiliar feeling heating his blood and causing his heart to beat an uneven cadence, be love? Could he, the offspring of generations of unfeeling bastards, actually be capable of love?

  As Max strode indoors and climbed the risers to his rooms, his internal battle raged on.

  Forgive and forget?

  Punish and demand restitution?

  Could he forsake the duty to his family for something as wholly selfish as love for a woman who could scarcely stand to look upon his face?

  Ah, but Gabriella had kissed him. More than once. Willingly and passionately, so she must’ve felt something toward him, if only desire. She wasn’t a flirt nor fast, and she’d succumbed with a fervor that had startled but pleased him.

  He needn’t peer into a looking glass to know a satisfied grin curved his mouth.

  Pausing along the second-floor gallery, he swept his gaze over the very first duke of Pennington’s portrait. Complete with a neat black beard, a high-necked doublet under a dark blue and gold brocade overgown, and accented by a gaudily jeweled collar—a truly heinous thing, actually—his forefather stared back at him with haughty arrogance.

  Prideful lot were the Dukes of Pennington. God only knew how many bastards these dukes had sired over the generations. As was typical of all the Dukes of Pennington, the first duke wore a solemn expression.

  Mayhap they all had bad teeth? He ran his tongue over his own teeth, all straight except for one slightly crooked lower tooth. He faithfully cleansed them twice daily.

  Hands clasped behind him, he slowly meandered the length of the carpeted corridor, his head slanted in concentration. He studied the serious faces of his ancestors, none particularly handsome, save his sire. His father bore classical striking features: a straight blade of a nose, a high forehead, sculpted cheeks and jaw, and dark hair that women seemed to find deucedly attractive.

  Max didn’t include himself in that category.

  His face was far too angular, his nose slightly too large with a distinct hump, and his different colored eyes had always vexed him. Not that he minded them all that much when he glanced into the cheval glass, but others seemed to find them wholly unnerving or intriguing, depending upon who the observer might happen to be.

  Gabriella, he realized with a small start, had never made him self-conscious about the abnormality. Many were the times she’d looked deeply into his eyes, and not once had there been even the merest flicker in hers. But then, that was so like her. To accept people as they were, without judgment or prejudice. To see the good in them.

  He suspected he could’ve had a gross facial disfigurement, and she’d have treated him with courtesy and kindness, nary a flinch marring her comportment.

  When he at last stood before his grandfather’s and father’s portraits, he straightened, and with a critical eye, narrowed his gaze. They bore little resemblance to one another, except in attitude, behavior, and speech. Actually, that wasn’t quite true either.

  At one time, his father had wanted to pursue a military career. The navy to be precise. Max had learned of that desire during one of his father’s intoxicated rants. Naturally, as the only heir, he was forbidden any such thing. He’d also been forbidden to wed the woman he loved. She’d been far beneath his station.

  Max had concluded as a young lad that his father was a weak man, compelled to become something he didn’t have the character or fortitude for.

  He glanced back down the row of austere ancestors in their gilded frames.

  By damn.

  When he sat for his portrait, he was going to grin as wide as a cat in the cream, even if it meant he appeared half mad. He wouldn’t pose as a somber-faced wretch looking as if death or the pox or the plague was about to descend upon him.

  Except…He unclasped his hands and leaned forward. One arm bent across his waist, the elbow of the other resting upon his forearm, he cradled his chin between his finger. Except, if he continued along this course, determined to destroy Breckensole, would he have reason to smile ever again?

  His vivacious Gabriella would be destroyed in the process. In that moment, the pain in his heart crested, writhing with such severity, he gasped and clutched both hands to his chest.

  He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t exact his revenge. Not out of any misplaced mercy or grace directed toward Breckensole. Gabriella, his sweet, unpredictable, vexing Gabriella had stopped him as surely as if a royal decree had been issued.

  Max loved her, and love forgave a multitude of sins. None of the other signified. It was as if he was able to finally see clearly. What mattered most was that he not destroy that incredible, remarkable, beyond comparison woman.

  Pennington duty and honor could burn in the seventh layer of hell’s flames, which he strongly suspected, a few of these very same ancestors might very well be doing at this moment.

  He, by God above, would not further blacken the dukedom with misplaced revenge.

  Gabriella had reason to hate him. He’d given her every reason to. But he would not force her into a union she didn’t want. That much he could do.

  At once, as if heavy, binding chains had been removed, a weight lifted from him. Melted off like a candle held to a fire. He laughed out loud, causing a passing chambermaid to give him a queer look and scuttle past him a mite faster.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d do about the tax situation, but Breckensole could keep Hartfordshire Court and Max would never make a claim against the estate again. He’d inform the Breckensoles of his decision at dinner. Then tomorrow, he’d be straight for London. For staying in the vicinity, with Gabriella so close but utterly and forever unattainable was unbearable. Even for a hard-hearted Duke of Pennington.

  At precisely seven of the clock, a leather portfolio and Gabriella’s sketchpad and pencils neatly tucked beneath his left arm, Max rapped upon Hartfordshire’s stout door. Dead silence met his knock, and after a couple of minutes, he pounded the door a jot harder.

  He’d never been inside Hartfordshire Court and had no idea if the house’s layout prevented the servants from hearing a knock upon the entrance. Another extended moment passed before the door finally swung open.

  A plump, slightly breathless maid holding a candlestick bobbed a curtsy. “Your Grace.” She swept her arm to the side, indicating he should enter. After setting the taper down, she managed a timid smile and accepted his hat and gloves.

  “Thank you,” he intoned, more formally than he’d intended. To his ears he sounded like a bloody, pompous windbag. Not the impression he wanted to make at all. He tried again, this time offering a cordial smile. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Her unplucked eyebrows skittered upward, and she gawked at him as if he were dicked in the nob before finally murmuring, “Not at all, Your Grace.”

  It wasn’t bloody kind of her. It was her job, as they both knew full well.

  “Yes. Well…” He cleared his throat, turning his head and listening for voices. “I appreciate it nonetheless.”

  Now she did gape at him as if he were stark-raving mad. Dukes didn’t go about complimenting servants for mundane tasks.

  For God’s sake, man. Shut up. You’re babbling like a tabby.

  “Miss Breckensole’s drawing supplies.” He passed them over as well. He retained the portfolio, and though the maid eyed it curiously, didn’t offer to take the case.

  Were the servants aware of what tonight’s visit was truly about? Entirely possible in a household of this size.

  After a long blink, she placed
his possessions and the sketchpad and pencils upon a marble-topped hall tree stand and collected the candlestick. “The family awaits you in the drawing room. This way, if you please.”

  And even if he didn’t.

  So Breckensole didn’t even permit candles lit in the entry. More evidence of his miserliness. Still, it wasn’t Max’s business whether the pinch-penny lit one or a hundred candles for his guests.

  Uncharacteristic nerves pattered along his spine as he followed the maid’s brisk pace.

  Likely, she was needed in the kitchen to finish the meal’s preparation. He hadn’t been surprised the Breckensoles didn’t retain a butler. His man of business had reported they kept a small staff of four: A cook, this maid of all work, the injured groomsman, Jackson, and the stable lad who’d led Balor to the small stables positioned to the back and left of the main house.

  The single candle threw weird, tremulous shadows along the sparsely furnished corridor. Dark wainscoting—walnut?— covered the lower third of the passageway, and faded floral wallpaper, the upper two thirds. A lone painting of a Dutch landscape interrupted the monotony.

  At the drawing room door, the maid paused after sending him an uncertain glance. She knocked lightly, then leaned in and pressed the handle. “His Grace, the Duke of Pennington.”

  Dead silence met her announcement as four wary gazes took him in: Breckensole’s blazed with hatred, his wife’s blatant distrust, Miss Ophelia’s accusation, and Gabriella’s brimming with sadness.

  I could have loved you.

  “Adel,” Mrs. Breckensole said. “Please light the hall sconces.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Breckensole.” The maid dipped her chin and after another swift glance about the tension-filled room, made her escape. No doubt the kitchen gossip would include the family’s less than warm welcome.

  Gabriella, wearing an extremely becoming pale pink gown trimmed in ivory lace, her hair piled atop her head with jaunty curls framing her face, and pearl earbobs dangling from her dainty ears had never appeared more lovely. Slightly pale, but supremely composed, Gabriella being Gabriella, broke the awkward silence.

  She sunk into a graceful curtsy which Max acknowledged with a bow. “Your Grace, I believe you are already acquainted with my grandfather, Harold Breckensole.”

  Not exactly acquainted. There’d never been a formal introduction in all the years their properties had paralleled each other. They’d seen the other in the distance, of course, but the first unfortunate meeting had occurred the other night. Nevertheless, determined to be at his most charming for her sake, he angled his head. “Sir.”

  He received a stony glower in greeting.

  Splendid. Things were off to a romping, jolly good start.

  Gabriella’s mouth flattened minutely, and he could’ve sworn she sent her grandfather a reproachful glance. Easier to catch flies with honey and all that, her silent message implied.

  She was all the sweetness Max needed to persuade him to do almost anything.

  “Please permit me to introduce my grandmother. Your Grace, Irene Breckensole. Grandmama, Maxwell, Duke of Pennington.” Simple and direct without embellishment or pretense.

  He bent into a formal bow, and Mrs. Breckensole deemed to lower her chin a fraction. Something in the handsome woman’s frosty gaze sent prickles of unease up and down his spine.

  Neither Mr. or Mrs. Breckensole had bothered to rise as he was accustomed to, and he wasn’t certain whether he was more amused that his title didn’t impress them in the least or miffed at their insolence. Then again, Mrs. Breckensole was still recovering from her bout of ill health.

  Her husband, on the other hand, was just being an ornery ass. In a word, himself.

  Max angled toward Miss Ophelia and bowed again. “Miss Ophelia.”

  “Duke.” Her curtsy was so shallow as to be just this side of rude.

  What had he expected? That they’d be giddy he’d deemed to call upon them?

  Another stilted silence filled the room—evidently the fire the only thing capable of moving or showing any degree of cheer. Hell, Breckensole had yet to speak a word, although had his glare been a weapon, Max would’ve been eviscerated upon entrance.

  Gabriella tapped her toes, back and forth, back and forth. Was she even aware she had that nervous quirk? When she caught sight of his slight grin and his pointed stare at her slippers, she stopped at once. Rather than off-putting or annoying, he found the trait endearing.

  Wasn’t he a completely besotted bumble-brain? And it was quite the most puzzling, incredible thing.

  Still, his reason for being here wasn’t pleasant. He breathed out a silent sigh. There was no point in waiting until after dinner and extending everyone’s discomfort to say what he’d come to say. Lacing his fingers together behind his back, he splayed his legs. “I think it best for all if I speak directly.”

  Breckensole snorted, and Miss Ophelia placed a hand on her grandmother’s shoulder in a reassuring fashion.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer to wait until after we’ve dined?” The look Gabriella leveled him suggested she thought whatever he had to say might put them off their food.

  Or maybe they plan on poisoning me and thereby eliminating their problem altogether. Max wasn’t serious, of course. She would never countenance such malevolent behavior.

  Breckensole, on the other hand, certainly appeared up to the task. Max eyed the man’s fingers, looking for a poison ring. The safe at Chartworth Hall contained one, and he’d always wondered which duke it had belonged to and if he’d ever used if for nefarious means.

  Harnessing his wayward thoughts, he procured his diplomat’s smile, and Gabriella’s eyes rounded then shrank into contemplative slits. “I’ve had all afternoon to reconsider”—he made certain to emphasize the word— “the circumstances, and I’ve concluded—”

  Harold Breckensole made a hostile, animalistic sound deep in his throat. With some effort, he stood and stabbed a wobbly finger at him. “We know precisely what your ignoble intentions are, you blackguard. But before you proceed with your demands, you had best read this.” He produced a wrinkled, yellowed rectangle from within his outdated coat pocket; the fabric a peculiar faded brown much like weak tea.

  A letter?

  Holding the scrap of paper as if it were a rapier, a smug smile wreathed Breckensole’s face.

  “Grandpapa, I thought we agreed to wait until after we’d dined.” Gabriella clasped her hands, tension making her fine cheekbones stand out. The smattering of light freckles on her nose contrasted starkly against her alabaster face.

  “Why? Let’s be done with this falderol and the false niceties. We can all appreciate this is not a social call, no matter how politely masked.” Breckensole waved the foolscap, and it crackled in protest. “Then I can send this bounder on his way, eat my dinner, and actually enjoy my meal.”

  When Max made no effort to cross the room to accept whatever the correspondence was, she glided forward, the epitome of womanly grace. She’d have made a magnificent duchess, and his heart panged again that it would never be so. He’d had but one chance for this woman’s love, and in his mistaken quest for honor, he’d callously dashed it to ribbons.

  She accepted the paper from her grandfather. Edging that obstinate little chin up, she crossed to where Max stood, her skirts swishing around her ankles. Ankles which he knew to be dainty and well-formed. Lips slightly pursed, which only served to remind him he’d tasted their deliciousness but a few hours ago, she held the letter before her.

  “I do believe it would be beneficial for you to read this before you proceed.” Over her shoulder, she spared her grandmother a short, pointed glance before addressing him again. “I only learned of this particular after I returned home today, else I would’ve apprised you of its existence.”

  Gratitude for her loyalty, no matter how misplaced, bloomed behind his ribs. She tried indirectly to warn him, and that could only mean the contents were rather damning. From Breckensole’s gloating smirk, rather somew
hat more than damning, Max would vow.

  Something close to compassion tinged her self-assurance, but she met his gaze straight on. Fearless, was his Gabriella. He’d never known a time it wasn’t so.

  “What is it?” He skeptically eyed the note clasped between her fingers. No name or address appeared on its aged face, and mustiness wafted upward from the crumpled missive.

  “It’s a letter, Your Grace,” Mrs. Breckensole put in, her tone clipped and guarded. “Written by your grandmother when she was the duchess.”

  He jerked his head up from inspecting the paper. First, he searched her gratified countenance before gravitating his focus to Breckensole’s smug expression that all but screeched, “I’ve-got-you-by-the-ballocks-now.” Prickles of unease zipped along Max’s spine for the third time in less than a half hour, and goose pimples raised from wrist to shoulder. He laid his portfolio on a nearby chair then studiously brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve.

  He wasn’t going to like this.

  After a side-eyed glance at Gabriella and her twin, he flexed his jaw.

  No, he wasn’t going to like this in the least. He still intended to relinquish all claim to Hartfordshire Court, so whatever the letter said was moot.

  He hoped.

  “Your Grace.” Gabriella fluttered the missive toward him, and he reluctantly accepted it.

  “Why would you be in possession of a letter from my grandmother, Mrs. Breckensole?” he asked.

  “I was her companion before I married.” Mrs. Breckensole patted Ophelia’s hand still resting upon the elderly woman’s shoulder. “She trusted me absolutely, because she knew I’d never betray her. I was to have delivered that letter, but a series of calamitous events prevented my doing so.”

  That sent his eyebrows crashing together. How had his man of business not uncovered that detail? That very vital detail, indeed? Even now, Mrs. Breckensole defended his grandmother, and that more than anything, convinced him she spoke the truth.