Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  It was almost enough to make him wonder if Brookmoore hadn’t been intent on killing him, rather than rendering him incapacitated. Did the sod seriously think he could avoid repercussions for his actions? It made more sense to believe Brookmoore had taken leave of his faculties.

  Or, perhaps, he was desperate. Desperate men did all manner of stupid things.

  Nevertheless, Crispin would be damned if he’d propose to Jessica from his bed, like an invalid. Bad enough, he didn’t have a ring for her. That could be remedied in short order, however.

  Since he didn’t know her gemstone preference, mayhap they’d make an outing of it. He’d determined to give her something unique. Something no one else had ever worn. A ring that would make her eyes sparkle with appreciation.

  Naturally, there were dozens and dozens of majestic gems, parures, and other blinding and glittering baubles in the family safe. But Jessica warranted a betrothal ring that commemorated their union. He couldn’t help but wonder how she’d reacted to the news of their disgrace and forthcoming nuptials. Crispin would do all within his power to ease her discomfit and any concerns.

  Toward that end, he would meet his future duchess in the drawing room. Despite Marsters’s fierce scowl and downturned mouth; his housekeeper, Mrs. Peedell’s, tsking and issuing vexed and dire warnings that he would kill himself; and his majordomo, Barlow’s, elevated nose and loud sniffs of disapproval, he’d left his bed two hours ago.

  There’d be no chastisements to his domestics for overstepping, for their actions were born out of affection and loyalty. In truth, he counted himself lucky to have them.

  The long soak in the tub had helped a degree, as had the medicinal tea laced with herbs that Mrs. Peedell had threatened to pour down his throat while Marsters and Barlow held him unless he drank the bitter concoction. He’d far have preferred Scotch or cognac, but he’d been forbidden spirits until his concussion healed.

  That was bloody inhumane torture.

  All the while he readied himself for his meeting with Jessica, rage—acrid and lethal—simmered behind his ribs. A steady, bubbling fury.

  No one, by God, no one conspired against him in the manner Brookmoore and Lilith had and didn’t dearly pay for their perfidy. That he was forced to ask for Jessica’s hand in marriage only magnified the insult.

  Now, she’d never believe he’d yearned to marry her, to make her his. Before this debacle, he’d not been able to declare himself or ask permission to court her. Being betrothed did rather curb wooing another woman, even if the duke possessed a wicked reputation.

  A reputation he’d methodically and diligently cultivated, hoping to dissuade the Brightons. A reputation built on falsehoods and fabrications. And although his carefully constructed facade had failed to convince the Brightons to void the betrothal contract, Society had been all too eager to accept the charade as absolute truth.

  Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny the prospect of marrying Jessica excited him.

  What infuriated Crispin, and what he’d never be able to convince others of, was that she’d have been his choice had he been given one. He’d have courted her, wooed her, hoping that, in time, she’d come to care for him.

  Nevertheless, due to the duplicity of others, the decision of whether to wed or not had been ripped from them.

  A slightly evil grin tipped his mouth on one side.

  How was Hammon Brighton dealing with his darling daughter’s treachery?

  Wouldn’t Crispin like to be a fly in the room when Brighton learned of her duplicity. Her ruination, for she was every bit as disgraced as Jessica, if not more. And when her part in the fiasco wrought upon him and Jessica became known, not a door would remain open to her or her parents, no matter how deep and heavy their purses.

  Only an absolute idiot bashed dukes over the head, stripped them naked, and arranged them for discovery with an equally nude, drugged female and hoped to escape unscathed. Hoped to escape his wrath.

  Never having struck him as a female with particularly sharp intellect, Lilith probably hadn’t even considered the ramifications for herself. He’d be bound, her only consideration had been how to discredit Crispin in order not to wed him. That she’d also injured an innocent, someone incapable of the degree of deceit and callousness she had shown, made her contemptible and unworthy of mercy.

  He scratched his nose, considering the steps he’d take to assure appropriate justice was meted out.

  It would be hers and Brookmoore’s word against his and Jessica’s, though. That might prove a trifle tricky, particularly since Radcliffe could be counted on to substantiate any tale his foul brother concocted.

  If only there’d been a witness to Jessica entering the hothouse with Lilith. Better yet, someone who’d seen Brookmoore and Lilith undress him and Jessica, or him being struck upon the head. That was about as likely as snow in August.

  Pink snow.

  Hammon Brighton, the mule-headed mushroom, had refused for years to release Crispin from the contract. But now, Lilith had assured his freedom.

  A half-snort, half-chuckle escaped him, causing Marsters to give him a dubious look before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

  Perchance Crispin ought to thank Lilith for helping him snare the one woman he’d dreamed of making his own; rub a little salt in the wound, as it were. His grin grew wider at the thought. No court would uphold the betrothal contract now —neither a court of law nor the court of public opinion.

  What was a little humiliation and discomfort to be rid of the chit once and for all? Well, a jot more than a little, but he was thick-skinned. But was Jessica? He’d found women tended to be much more sensitive about matters of this nature.

  Victor had already bought up Radcliff’s vowels on Crispin’s behalf, but he wasn’t done with Brookmoore and his brother. Not by half, by God. They’d only begun to feel the power of his wrath. By the time he’d finished with them, they’d never show their faces in London again. Maybe not even England.

  Slowly rising, for sudden movement sent his head and his stomach swirling, he stood and waited for the room to stop wobbling. He shouldn’t be up and about yet. He blamed his deuced pride. One did not propose while flat upon one’s back in bed. Truth be told, he shouldn’t have to propose under these circumstances at all, but little good it would do to voice that fact.

  Lines of concern stamped Marsters’s face, but he wisely kept his apprehension to himself. “I’ll just walk with you, Your Grace.”

  In other words, I’ll make sure you don’t fall flat on your face and ruin my efforts to see you presented in the first stare of fashion.

  Crispin wouldn’t dismiss his offer.

  He might very well need an arm to lean on if his head didn’t stop spinning. In truth, he also might cast up his accounts. Jaw clenched against the pain stabbing his brain, he managed to make the drawing room without disgracing himself. And with seven minutes to spare before the clock struck four, he sank onto the brocade sofa before the comfortably snapping fire.

  He’d opted against meeting Jessica in his study. The atmosphere would be too formal and intimidating. Most likely, she was already apprehensive and embarrassed. As much as possible, he’d ease her discomfort. The truth was, the whole situation was deucedly awkward.

  Last night, barely able to string one thought after another, he’d demanded the flustered women, who’d intruded upon him and Jessica in the conservatory, remain to lend the merest thread of respectability while he’d sent the gawping men for help. Namely, to locate Jessica’s family and Westfall, as well as Dandridge, Sheffield, and Pennington and their duchesses.

  Once her sister and his friends had arrived, he’d sent the first intruders on their way, in no uncertain terms. Sheffield stood guard outside the door, deterring additional inquisitive guests who’d made their way from the main house when word of the debacle had broken.

  At that thought, he pressed his mouth into a harsh line. That had to have been something to witness. He could only imagi
ne the sotto voce whispers, sly smiles, and waggling eyebrows.

  Bainbridge and Jessica Brentwood are tangled together, naked as cherubs, in the hothouse.

  The young duchesses, amid appalled whispers, had bundled the still-unconscious Jessica into her clothes as best they could, while the men gently assisted Crispin, peppering him with questions he could scarcely answer, half-unconscious himself.

  Someone had sent for a physician, and Pennington and Sutcliffe had accompanied him home. Once the physician had examined Crispin and he’d explained Brookmoore’s and Miss Brighton’s part in the scheme,. Made more so by Mrs. Peedell, Marsters, or Barlow waking him every hour to ensure he hadn’t cocked up his toes.

  Not before vowing he’d wed Jessica at the earliest opportunity, however. Even in his befuddled state, he recognized that was their only recourse.

  There was no help for it, as he’d told Sutcliffe, who whole-heartedly agreed with no small amount of relief as well.

  Barlow rapped lightly before striding into the drawing room. “The Duke and Duchess of Sutcliffe and Miss Jessica Brentwood have arrived.”

  “Please show them in, and ask Mrs. Peedell for tea and refreshments.” Careful not to jostle his head, Crispin shoved to his feet. A gentleman would never remain seated when a duchess entered the room. The stilted movement nearly caused his eyes to cross in pain, but teeth clamped tight, he’d donned a benign mask.

  “At once, Your Grace.” Head lowered, Barlow backed out, the epitome of a deferential servant. For the moment, at least.

  Uncharacteristic and unexpected nerves rioted around in Crispin’s gut. As thankful as he was to no longer be betrothed to Lilith, he’d not thought he’d ever be in a position of asking a woman to marry him to avoid a scandal.

  Avoid a scandal?

  Too bloody late for that.

  But, as an influential duke, he could provide Jessica with a position of power. Duchesses were forgiven much. Not that the troublesome circumstances surrounding their discovery in the conservatory wouldn’t keep viperish tongues wagging for a few weeks. Even when the truth came out—for he’d see it did—the havoc had been wrought.

  And it was damning.

  The haut ton was more willing to turn a blind eye to a duke’s or duchess’s imprudence than to those of lower ranks. He held no qualms about exploiting his position if it ensured buffering Jessica against maliciousness.

  A few deep, steadying breaths later, in which the turmoil in his head abated a degree, Barlow ushered the Sutcliffes and Jessica inside the drawing room.

  Crispin succeeded in remaining upright without gritting his teeth or feeling faint. “Thank you for coming.” He spoke directly to Jessica.

  She wore a stunning, pale-blue day gown, the shade a perfect enhancement for her fair hair and vibrant eyes. Slight plum-tinted shadows ringed those pretty eyes today, and her features appeared more pronounced in her oval face. To the unpracticed eye, she exuded poise, but the angle of her jaw, the slope of her shoulders, and her stiff spine bespoke untold tension.

  “I hope you are recovering well, Your Grace.” Her voice had always fascinated him. Low and lilting, it held none of the arrogant coolness so many women of station affected.

  After meeting his gaze and offering a cordial, if somewhat hesitant smile, her attention shifted to inspecting the room. Or, at least, she made a pretense of doing so.

  He imagined, given what she no doubt knew about how they’d been found last night, she wrestled with a great deal of chagrin. He caught her regarding him from the corner of her eye.

  Inquisitiveness and speculation shone there.

  “How are you feeling, Bainbridge?” Sutcliffe asked as they shook hands. “I didn’t expect to see you up yet. Didn’t the doctor restrict you to bed for a week?” He chuckled and brushed a finger across an eyebrow. “Though, if it were me, I’d likely be out of bed against the physician’s orders too.”

  “Indeed, you would.” The duchess came forward and offered Crispin her hand. “Thank you, Your Grace. I cannot express how indebted I am to you for what you did for my sister last evening. I’ll be forever obligated to you.”

  Crispin counted himself extremely fortunate that not a single one of his friends or their wives had doubted his tale. Though the evidence indicated he and Jessica had been the victims of foul play, there were still those with suspicious minds who suggested he was somehow at fault.

  His friends were not amongst them.

  As for being at fault… He berated himself a hundred times over for not at once suspecting Brookmoore was up to mischief when they’d entered the conservatory and he’d seen Jessica. He’d never been a particular friend of Brookmoore, but he’d never have suspected the churl would act so dishonorably, either. The truth was, seeing her lying there had so alarmed him, he’d cast aside his usual caution.

  Still, the Duchess of Sutcliffe wouldn’t be so appreciative if she knew he’d looked his fill at Jessica’s lush curves. But then, he’d had little recourse, positioned as they were, both incapable of rising without assistance.

  Something that felt very much like a flush warmed his face. “I shan’t lie and deny my head hurts like the devil himself is kicking the inside of my skull, and the stitches are tender. But the physician assures me I’ll recover, in due time.”

  Jessica cut him an assessing glance, her gaze probing. Her concern seemed genuine. “I hope you do so swiftly.”

  Her contralto voice wrapped around him like warm silk and took root in his heart. Only this woman had ever affected him thus.

  “Please, won’t you have a seat and make yourselves comfortable?” Crispin gestured toward the sofa as he claimed an armchair. The women sank gracefully onto the broad, ivory- and mint-hued cushions, and Sutcliffe took possession of the other plush armchair.

  Jessica met his eyes, hers uncertain and apologetic beneath fine, winged eyebrows. As she removed her gloves, she delicately cleared her throat. “Before anyone says anything, I have something I wish to say.”

  Going on the offensive, was she? Crispin rather liked Jessica’s gumption. She’d never been retiring or simpering. She’d just been…Jessica. Sweet and kind and wholly desirable.

  She gently laid the gloves on the sofa’s arm. The Brentwoods had been quite impoverished, and although Sutcliffe had provided her with a new wardrobe, Crispin liked that she continued to take care of her possessions, lest they become ruined.

  Surprise registering on their faces, her sister and brother-in-law exchanged befuddled glances before turning their attention to her.

  “What is it, dearest?” the duchess asked. The sisters were extremely close.

  Jessica had gone to live with the Sutcliffes after her parents sailed to Australia under a shroud of disgrace. That was all she needed. More ignominy after her father’s dishonesty had tainted the family name.

  Drawing in a breath deep enough to expand her chest, she clasped her hands and tilted her dainty-but-determined, slightly impertinent chin. “I know why we’ve come here today. I want to make it known that such a gesture is not necessary. I shan’t accept, in any event.”

  “Pardon?” Her sister sent a panicked glance to her husband.

  Jessica’s chin inched up a trifle more, and she met Crispin’s gaze straight on. She was a plucky thing, by Jove.

  “But, Jessica, we spoke of this.” The duchess’s concern for her sister was tangible. He’d seen her alarm last night. He saw the tears she’d shed upon spying her younger sister. Witnessed the sharp snap of anger jerking her eyebrows together and straightening her spine when she realized the May game that had been played upon Jessica.

  She only wanted what was best for her sister and, like Crispin, acknowledged the most prudent of actions was a swift exchanging of vows.

  Sutcliffe leaned forward, compassion etched upon his usually sardonic features. “Why don’t we discuss the situation first, and then you can make a decision?”

  He glanced at Crispin for confirmation, and he gave a slight nod, c
ognizant any abrupt movement might send his head bouncing across the floor as violently as a nut shaken in a tin. His soon-to-be bride might not appreciate the scene.

  Barlow entered with the tea service. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

  “No. Thank you. Please close the door.”

  He appreciated the servants would likely listen at the keyhole, and he hadn’t a doubt news of last night’s debacle had already swept through the house, from the attic to the kitchen. In all likelihood, they also knew why Jessica was here and had already begun to assess their new mistress.

  “May I impose upon you to pour, Miss Brentwood?” She might as well begin her role as his duchess.

  A startled look whisked across her refined features before she schooled her emotions and dipped her chin in acquiescence. “Of course.”

  As always, her voice washed over him, at once soothing and arousing. He didn’t let his imagination trot down the latter, more sensual path, or he’d be sporting a cockstand. That, he didn’t want to have to explain to his future brother-in-law.

  With the inherent grace he so admired about Jessica, she completed the task, and after everyone held a cup of tea and had selected an assortment of sandwiches and dainties, he cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming today. I shan’t dally or mince words.”

  He slid Jessica a glance, but her focus remained fixed on her shoes. Or the carpet. Or perhaps it was the absolutely riveting turn of the table’s leg.

  “You needn’t ask for my hand in marriage, Your Grace,” she quietly said, without a hint of regret or subterfuge as she brought her gaze up to meet his.

  Again, she reminded him of a marine-eyed kitten.

  “It’s noble of you if that’s your intent,” she conceded. “But I find, in truth, I have neither the temperament nor the inclination to become a duchess.”

  The room grew unnaturally silent, the Duchess of Sutcliffe casting her husband a panicked look, her teacup poised in midair. The exuberantly crackling fire and the clock’s steady ticking filled the awkward space.